


A Place Where Light Can Never Reach

by thedamnstars



Series: A Place Where Light Can Never Reach [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: (he's not that dark but i guess that's the general tag), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Descriptions of Vomitus, Descriptions of gore, First Order Poe Dameron, Heavy Angst, M/M, Past Brainwashing, Past Kidnapping, Pre-TFA, Repressed Memories, Stormtrooper!Poe Dameron, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, dark!Poe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10098959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedamnstars/pseuds/thedamnstars
Summary: Stormtrooper!Poe Dameron AU ~Under the sterility and the plastoid of the restrictive mask, the cockpit of a TIE/sf space superiority fighter is the only place he can let go. Even if it is only for a few precious seconds. Even if he has to close his eyes and pretend he hasn’t gunned down innocents. But the rush of flight scares away the gnawing at his insides, and for those few precious seconds, he is free.He’s only ever felt that way one other time. FN-2187. He calls him Finn. Finn Finn Finn.Finn, who also doesn’t know his family or where he came from, but he does know how to shoot a blaster and hit a target from forty kilos away. He knows how to fix a TIE fighter. And, once he’s been demoted to sanitation, how to clean a bulkhead. He’s naturally talented at anything the Captains put in front of him and it astonishes them when FN-2187 fails to faithfully comply to every command.PO-1888 and FN-2187 have that in common.





	1. Gods & Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is an extension of [this post](http://thedamnstars.tumblr.com/post/152352442952/uhm-excuse-me-where-is-the-poe-is-a-stormtrooper) that i wrote a few months ago on tumblr.
> 
> And I haven’t seen very much stormtrooper!poe stuff besides @lyricalt’s [amazing art](http://lyricalt.tumblr.com/post/140865410371/captain-fn-2187-and-his-best-pilot-in-the-first) that i love so much and definitely inspired me on some level
> 
>  
> 
> So ya! I really hope yall enjoy this bc I have two other fics that I should be working on at the moment but I abandoned them to come write this instead 
> 
>  
> 
> **And I put this in the tags, but I do want to stress again that there will be mentions of suicidal thoughts, gore and vomitus. If those things bother/trigger you I really suggest you don’t read this and/or take precaution**

When they take you away they replace you with someone new. Something new. PO-1888 doesn’t remember who he used to be before they took him away, but he does remember that he hates the ones who took him. He hates them with every fibre of his being. His hatred threatens to choke him, like a vice around his throat, like the damned black collar of his flight suit.

They can’t wash away the hatred. However hard they try, they can’t wash away the contempt or the brash impudence that lives beneath his skin.

Of course, he would never stoop so low as to say something to his commanding officer. He doesn’t have a death wish. But it’s in his eyes, the ones that are covered everyday by the sterile helmet. It’s in his flying, that strays just a hair closer to impulsivity than practiced uniformity. It's in his _yes sirs_ instead of _yes captains_. It's in his whole being. It’s a hatred so strong that it consumes him, and lights a fire in his stomach that threatens to eat him up inside.

He hides it well. He hides it behind practiced indifference and behind the black mask. He hides his all-consuming hatred behind the disguise they have made for him.

In the wet-room at the end of the cycle, PO-1888 peels off his black aviator shell and his jumpsuit and scrubs beneath the hot spray until red welts rise on his skin. They burn, and he craves it; they burn, and he wants more, and PO-1888 hates how this is the only way he can feel anything when both feet are on the ground. He stares at his toes as the hot water falls over his neck and stings at his hairline; crimson tainted water begins to swim and flirt about his feet.

It drips from PO-1910, who washes with strained efficiency beside him. Ten’s lip trembles when he lifts his hands too high to wash at his chest; a welt carves through his side, a tear sustained on an unsuccessful cargo run. He bleeds onto the bleach white tile, red clots spiraling and mixing in dizzying patterns before disappearing into the drain at their feet. 

PO-1910 failed, they won’t waste the bacta on him. He will be decommissioned before the cycle is out.

PO-1888 scrubs the sweat and scum from his closely shorn hair and his skin and wishes he were in the vacuum of space, protected only by the metal veil of his fighter, moving farther and farther away from the Finalizer until it is just a speck of dust in the distance, no brighter than a fading star. He closes his eyes beneath the spray and imagines he is somewhere else, somewhere far away – on some desolate planet, with a blue sky and tall, sprouting grass that tickles between his toes when he finally takes his heavy flight boots off for the last time.

The only planet he has ever stepped foot on (or rather, the only one he _remembers_ stepping foot on, for all he knows they took that away too) was a green planet, lush and bright, and he had imagined even beneath the helmet that he could smell the clean air. He remembers the reason he stepped foot on that planet, and the ores of precious kyber that spread like veins beneath its surface. He craves the burning spray that stings his face, as he remembers the boys he shot down; the mothers and fathers protecting their children; the old woman who survived ninety years just to be cut down by the shot of his blaster. Their five minutes are up; the water cuts off.

PO-1888 shivers, shaking himself as residual droplets from the nozzle fall over his head. He leaves Ten shaking in the wet-room, one forearm against the wall for stability as he manages to hold half of himself together, the other half spilling down the drain. PO-1888 returns – naked and dripping with his uniform in his hands – to his barrack, where he dresses for off-duty autonomously and lays down in his bunk. He is cold and wet and asleep within minutes.

When he wakes, the cycle repeats again: a blur of followed commands that wring his stomach, and only the learned instinct of self-preservation keeping him from rupturing his own TIE/sf fighter’s data pack and flinging his corpse into the black abyss. The idea is tempting, but he keeps the thought to himself. They would send him again for reconditioning if he showed any minute signs of self-destructive behavior. He enjoys the flight while he can (that tightening of his stomach that he craves so much), on an hour of uninterrupted free space while traveling to intercept a Hosnian navy fleet. He can barely breathe right with the gunner at his back, but he lets his vision blur behind his flight helmet and loses himself to the void of space that surrounds them, and the almost soundless engine of their fighter.

At the end of the cycle, PO-1888 returns to his assigned shower in the wet-room. There are no remaining vestiges of Ten stuck between the tiles – he checks for scarlet blood stains. They have erased him, like he never existed. He was a number, deleted for his embarrassment to the First Order. His shower rotation has already been filled, the faucet beside PO-1888’s own already occupied; the replacement recruit’s shoulders are muscular and dark and wide, and PO-1888 knows this trooper must be prized by the Captain to be transferred into Special Forces. They are all prized by the Captain, until they break.

The trooper washes efficiently, though he shows no sign of keening into the hot water like PO-1888 does, basking in the heat. The droplets just slide off the trooper’s lux skin, unnoticed and unappreciated. His full lips are forced into an unforgivingly repressed line, refusing be anything else.

PO-1888 turns to his own shower, keeping his gaze to himself for the entirety of his slated five minutes. Their sprays shut off at the same time, and in tandem, they attempt to shake off their wet skin without appearing bothered by the cold air. Hair rises along PO-1888’s arms from the sudden chill, and when he turns to leave, he sees the bumps which too have risen along the recruit’s flesh.

He returns alone to the Special Forces barrack, where his unit of the piloting corps is billeted. Their quarters are small and black; dimly lit with strip lighting along platforms which separate their eight bunks, as impersonal as the rest of the Finalizer. PO-1888 dries and dresses perfunctorily, in grey PO sleeping kit, hardly doing its job of staving off the cold. He climbs the ladder to reach his bunk, the topmost compartment in a wall of four shelf-like beds. Most of the Piloting Officers pace aimlessly in their small quarters, staring at the empty bunk Ten once occupied. It has been stripped, the single linen sheet burned with Ten’s body. A new black flight suit, sleep kit and bed covers sit on the pallet, waiting for the new recruit to claim them. His polished helmet is missing the Special Forces twin stripes, not yet one of _them_. The PO Corps wait for their fresh meat.

The recruit arrives some minutes later, naked shoulders squared tall, in some awkward form of feigned confidence. PO-1888 knows he can feel their eyes on him, sizing him up. His expression remains glazed as he crosses to his bunk, the only empty pallet, third down in the wall opposite PO-1888. He abandons his white infantry uniform on the bed, picks up the sleep kit and dresses slowly, without shame. The infantry doesn’t sleep; they’re put on ice in the cryo-lockers between cycles. He is putting on a show.

PO-1234 – Straights – clears her throat where she stands behind the recruit; her arms are crossed as she leans against the wall. She is small and thin and pale, and her high cheeks look sallow in the low light of the barrack. Her voice cuts, razor sharp, into the quiet.

“Designation, rookie.”

“Unit designation FN-2187,” the recruit answers, his voice rich and deep, unabused by endless shouting into the flight-coms.

“FN?” Straights doesn’t ask for clarification, she demands it.

“The Captain – Captain Phasma,” his voice stutters the smallest bit, “she thinks I might be better suited to aviation than FN ground infantry. I’m to be trained for Special Forces.”

Straights looks him over; his combat ready muscles, and his worn hands. His palms are calloused on the skin of his ligaments like a gunner, not like a pilot. She raises an eyebrow, and patronizes, “You _fly_ , Rook?”

He swallows, but when he opens his mouth his voice is level, “I’m a fast learner.”

Straights turns to her bunk, huffing under her breath, “We’ll see about that.”

Shoulders tense, FN-2187 makes up his own bunk and lays down, his new flight suit and white infantry uniform stashed in the compartment for personal effects (the flight suit and the infantry uniform _are_ his personal effects). The lights remain on, as they always do, a glow that hollows the barrack, a room too small for the entire Special Forces PO Corps to cohabitate comfortably. They are all too aware of each other. Long minutes pass and the recruit’s breathing has yet to level out. He is still staring up at the ceiling, curled awkwardly on his pallet, unable to relax in his bunk. None of them know relaxation, that is not a word familiar to the troopers of the First Order.

Eventually, PO-1888 closes his own eyes and is lucky enough to be seized by a pitying, fitful sleep.

 

 

 

When the cycle begins again, FN-2187 is the first to wake. He dresses slowly, with uncertain expertise, covering his dark and un-battle tested skin with his new flight suit. 

His clumsy fumbling is loud enough to wake PO-1888 in his bunk. He stifles a yawn, turning his head to properly watch the recruit dress. It is clear he is not used to the suit; the black plastoid of Navy pilot armor is made of reinforced composites, much heavier on the shoulders than the stark white infantry uniform.

FN-2187 takes a shaky breath after clipping his chest plates together. The collar circles his neck, and PO-1888 knows that it is tight and constricting – putting it on makes the air hard to breathe. FN-2187 lowers his hands and stares at his bunk, flight mask sitting on the pallet. Hesitantly, he takes up the bulky helmet and lowers it over his head.

It locks with a loud catch that reverberates through the barrack. FN-2187’s shoulders visibly tense, retreating into himself in a way PO-1888 has never seen before. His arms cradle himself like a child. Maybe he thinks he isn't being watched.

His black epoxy armor reflects the light in a brilliant, saturated black – like satin, like skin.

 

 

 

Straights and Twos lead the recruit through the corridors, trailing at his flank like dark shadows. PO-1722 – Twos – is PO-1888’s usual gunner. He is bulky and tall and compact, and one of the best shots in the Corps. He holds no compunctions for killing the innocent, and is prized for it. Twos also shares Straights’ affinity for goading the recruit. “Hey Rook,” he says, baiting FN-2187 who marches ahead of him with squared shoulders, “Better do good up there. Hate to wash out on your first run, yeah?”

FN-2187 doesn’t react outwardly, just keeps his gaze forward. But PO-1888’s jaw tightens from where he trails behind them. His teeth grind, and he can feel heat flooding into his cheeks.

The rest of the Corps parade behind them, their boots echoing in a steady drumming pattern against the jet-black epoxy floor. PO-1888 stares at Straights’ small feet, that stride with the unknowable violence that is bred inside her, and at Twos’ casual apathy that infects him like a disease. FN-2187 treads lightly, with carefully planned footfalls that seem reticent to tread with the same heavy steps of his peers, as they turn into the Special Forces starfighter wing.

They report for on-duty, escorting the recruit to Training Bay One. His flight tests will be observed by the Captain, a short, thin man with ruddy cheeks and a dusting of freckles that delicately mask his militancy. His eyes though bright, stray to tyrannous at the smallest provocation, and it is PO-1888’s private wish that the recruit does nothing to draw his ire.

They reach the hangar, where FN-2187 is ordered to climb the steep ladder of the launching rack and reach the TIE/sf space superiority he’s to test in. They’re not supposed to, but as FN-2187 disappears into his flight pod with a training astromech, the entirety of PO-1888’s squadron can’t help but try to watch his dry run, and to wonder why Captain Phasma has given them this rookie. He must be something special.

They pretend to be attending to their own TIEs when the test fighter undocks and departs from the hangar. It glides over Bay Two on its exit, the overheating of its reactors leaving a trail of sultry air in its wake. PO-1888 can feel hot sweat beading beneath his helmet, and his hands growing clammy inside their gloves.

His breathing comes no more ragged than usual, but the steady murmuring buzz of his life support and airflow threaten to rend him mad. The constant _in-and-out-and-in-and-out-and_ grate at him constantly, and though they protect him from the emptiness of space at the open doors of the hangar, he wants nothing more than to rip the apparatus from his face and throw it to the ground.

He watches the test fighter until it’s out of sight, but still he can’t seem to focus on anything but the way it disappears into the black of space, and the echo of breathing that rushes in his ears. His fingers look for grip on the wing of his fighter, and still he watches for flickers of light in the distant stars.

A heavy jostle knocks him to the side, making him lose his balance. The back of Twos’ glove bumps him against the side of their TIE fighter. It was done frivolously – Twos’ form of good-natured jockeying – but PO-1888’s armored composites have cut into the side of his waist, clipping his skin in a way that will surely bruise. He shakes it off though his right side protests, and pushes Twos back with equal zeal, almost making him slip on the ladder as he climbs to reach their pod.

“Ready, Eights?” Twos shouts down to him, once he has regained balance on the rungs.

“As I’ll ever be,” PO-1888 huffs in reply, though the sound comes out low and chafed from the breathing apparatus on his helmet. He begins to board the TIE after Twos is safely inside the pod.

“No flat hatting,” Twos chides, restraining himself into the gunner position, “the sensors can’t take it and I got no death wish today. Plus I want to see how bad that Rook makes a laserbrain of himself when we get back.”

PO-1888 doesn’t answer, just slides into the familiar piloting cockpit. It is tight and black inside, but he doesn’t need much room. The restraints buckle over him with practiced ease, and PO-1888 feels himself calm just the slightest bit. His fingers slide over the switchboard at his left, waiting for the clear from Control to detach.

“I mean it,” Twos presses, “if you got a death wish, you get it in someone else’s TIE. Either you follow the Captain’s orders or I report you myself; don’t think I don’t notice all the unnecessary bumping–”

PO-1888 shuts his eyes, closing them tight. He sighs, a short expel of air that barely does its job of grounding him. His hand tightens around the controls, quietly waiting for their clearance. He craves the flight. He craves it. His throat feels tight, and he craves the antigravity and the twisting of his gut that can only be found in the inky black of void-space. He craves it so much, and he’s growing impatient with Twos’ prattling, nagging voice in his ear. He is suddenly thankful for the black flight gloves; he thinks without them, that he would be scratching at the back of his palms, impulsively.

The clear from Control crackles in his ear, and with grateful hands, he prepares their TIE for departure. He doesn’t think about their destination, and whose lives he might be responsible for today. He just lets the twin reactors stir beneath them, and is grateful when the steady hum of their power is the only thing he can feel anymore.

 

 

 

Everyone watches as FN-2187 climbs awkwardly down the embankment of the launching rack, legs weak and barely keeping him properly upright. The Captain waits for him down below, in the haunting shadow of the hangar bay, gloved hands clasped behind his back and a dissatisfied look on his face. FN-2187’s posture is fatigued, nowhere close to the squared shoulders that boarded the TIE/sf.

The Special Forces watch him from across the hangar, to learn why they have been given this rookie. He is a natural; Captain Phasma has said so, he has her personal approval. They wait with baited breath to see the result of his flight:

He has no stomach for it.

Upon disembarking – legs weak and shaking, chest heavy and heaving – FN-2187 collapses to his knees on the polished epoxy of the hangar. The moment he falls, the Captain begins yelling at him, shouting abuse. But the trooper has no ear for it. He rips off his black flight helmet, a felony in its own right, and vomits where he kneels.

His shoulders buckle quickly, arms weakly supporting him on the bay floor as he heaves, then falls into his own pile of sick. His skin is beaded with sweat, shining like the epoxy, and his breathing is pathetically ragged.

PO-1888 climbs down to the floor of the launch rack, still yards away from the shaking figure of FN-2187. Beside him, Straights has uncoupled from her fighter to witness the mess. She stands in parade rest, back straight and hands folded at the small of her spine, and when she speaks her voice is tainted by the flight helmet, pitched down into a ghostlike rasp.

“He’s bent. I knew it,” she sneers.

PO-1888 frowns.

Below them, across the hangar, the Captain yells, “Someone scrape this whelp off my floor! And clean him up.”

PO-1888 moves, not thinking. He disconnects himself from the tether of his fighter and releases his helmet from the air hose, eliciting a shout from Twos. PO-1888 ignores his gunner, rushing down the embankment to inspect the limp body of FN-2187, who has weakly curled into himself, barely keeping his body upright by the forearms. His gloved hands curl desperately, searching for purchase upon the polished floor. PO-1888 lifts him up by the shoulders, forcing him to stand on weak feet.

FN-2187 whimpers meekly, the vomitus spotting his face and chest. He breathes laboriously. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he offers, pitifully. The Captain just blinks in their direction, his dainty freckles and round cheeks obscured by the dead eye stare that bores into them.

“Put your helmet back on,” PO-1888 whispers; FN-2187 won’t be allowed to walk in the hangar without it. The recruit stoops low to grab for it, the back of his neck beaded with sweat, his skin damp and feverish. Before he slides the thing on, a barely-there whimper escapes from his wet, bitten lips. When the helmet locks on properly, PO-1888 all but drags him away from the flight deck, ushered by the waist. The entirety of the Special Forces stare as they leave, the clone black helmets turning to follow FN-2187 as he escapes weakly from his humiliation.

PO-1888 leads him to the wet-room, a good few minutes’ hike from the starfighter wing, but he feels desperate to escape curious stares. The moment the two of them reach the showers, FN-2187 wrenches the mask off again and throws it forcefully to the floor. They both know there is no such thing as privacy here, there is only the illusion, but the wet-room is empty and no troopers are allowed in until off-duty.

Their inky flight suits reflect like pearls in the bright white light, against the unforgiving sterility of the showers. PO-1888 dumps FN-2187 into the stall, his dirtied uniform hitting the floor and the tiled wall with an echoing plastoid crack. His skin is clammy and wet, inflamed by the sick, and there is bile spilling down the front of his chest plate. PO-1888 pulls the composite over FN-2187’s head and abandons it on the floor to save it from short-circuiting in the water, before returning to stand at his full height. 

FN-2187 heaves his breath in a rugged, strained way, just as PO-1888 switches on the shower. FN-2187 winces as the spray comes down in a torrent over him; he spits the water away from his face as rivulets spill down his dark skin, and the black plating of his flight suit. The vomitus and sweat begin to wash away, running down the silver drain between them, mixing and dizzying PO-1888’s sight on the bleach white tile. 

FN-2187 manages to sit up properly, with his back against the stark wall, legs splayed wide to accommodate PO-1888, who rests in front of him. Rivulets rush down his face, soaking his black, coiled hair and the curves of his ears, his dark eyelashes and his plush lips. PO-1888 strips the mess from FN-2187 efficiently, removing the vestiges of his uniform. The shoulder pauldrons and gauntlets come off in a messy struggle, PO-1888’s wet flight gloves not made for dainty things like this; the undressing of another. Water spills over PO-1888’s helmet, soaking the jumpsuit beneath his armor.

FN-2187’s eyes stare at him, blown wide and unfocused. PO-1888 has yet to remove any part of his own damp uniform, and he knows how foreign this all must be. They do not touch each other in this manner, never with any nurturing intent. The mask is the face of a predator. It was never meant to be defiled this way.

FN-2187’s lips open as he breathes heavily through his mouth, his whole chest heaves with it. His shoulders rise and fall as PO-1888 takes off the last of his composites, freeing the zipper of his aviation jumpsuit.

PO-1888 moves away from him, to sit on his haunches and help remove the heavy boots on the recruit’s feet. With weak fingers, FN-2187 lifts a hand to his throat, pulling at the zipper and exposing his chest – the dark and still somehow unmarred skin that lives there. Water finds its way beneath the black nylon, against his clammy flesh.

PO-1888 stands, finally backing away from the spray. He is soaked, water falling off the plastoid of his chest composites and the transfer tube connected to his helmet. FN-2187 hunches his shoulders, finding the strength to stand as he undresses himself properly, kicking his jumpsuit into a wet pile with the rest of his uniform. He lifts his hands to test the water, closing his eyes for a minute to enjoy the heat, turned toward the wall.

PO-1888 unlocks his helmet, shrugging the thing off and letting it fall to the floor of the wet-room, his clammy face touching the fresh air. It smells overwhelmingly of cleaner.

FN-2187 turns to look over his shoulder, meeting eyes with PO-1888 for the first time.

They let their gaze linger, basking in the privacy they both know is not bred to last. They let their eyes keep hold of each other, like a tether, like a cable that has only just been fed a spark. They let themselves watch one another, free of the uniform black helmets that they have known all their lives, the ones that protect them from each other. PO-1888 can feel the hair at his forehead, matted with sweat and clinging to his skin. He watches, as the water falls in hot streams over FN-2187’s collar bones and shoulders.

He still looks weak. His face is sallow and tired, sapped like a towel wrung for all its worth. A second wind hits him, a bout of nausea that has FN-2187 buckle to the floor, gagging. The recruit supports himself biliously on his usually capable arms; now they hold him up from the tiled floor like a frail thing. PO-1888 wants to look away. He wretches into the water that pools shallowly around him, clouding it with his sick.

As quickly as he is able, PO-1888 divests himself of his armor entirely, throwing the pauldrons and breastplate and gauntlets to the floor in a violent way that make him wince when they collide loudly with the tile. When he is down to his nylon jumpsuit, he lowers himself beside FN-2187, once again falling under the spray. Gently, he lets himself wrap around FN-2187’s back, holding him by the arms while he wretches. His back shudders with it, and PO-1888 can feel the movements against his chest.

He has never touched someone this way. He doesn’t think FN-2187 has either. Beneath PO-1888’s hands, he is shaking and gasping and weak. PO-1888’s chin rests between his shoulderblades, nose grazing the soft skin.

“They put me in gunner.” FN-2187’s head is lowered, his mouth agape, and the words are barely recognizable as he catches his breath.

“You're training to pilot,” PO-1888 says in a low, questioning voice, brows knitting together.

“Well I'm training,” FN-2187 bites, “so they put me in gunner.” 

PO-1888 hazards a guess, “And you weren't any good?”

“I was better than good,” FN-2187 heaves, clasping the back of his own neck as he retches. His nails dig into the skin, his breathing coming in short, struggling rasps as water and vomitus drip from his mouth, “–s’disgusting.”

The spray shuts off, their five minutes are up.

 

 

 

FN-2187 is relegated to maintenance.

He is a liability, the Special Forces can't have a pilot who may spontaneously vomit over his fighter. Or choke in his helmet and asphyxiate to death.

According to his previous commanders, FN-2187 is too empathetic. He harbors too much compassion, and it is too deeply ingrained to make for a good PO. He has issues divorcing himself from a target.

They would have had him sent for reconditioning, but it had never proven to be a real issue before. And anyway, empathy can always be stamped out.

FN-2187 was too much of a prodigious sharpshooter and hand-to-hand combatant to risk losing his talent in the reconditioning over something that could be ridded of with a gentle guiding hand. _Shoot, FN-2187._ A gentle touch. _You will not be told again._ It was all quite easy, really, and Captain Phasma is not known for training the most successful Corps of FN troopers for nothing. She beats her boys to a pulp, and they come out stronger on the other side. _Get back up, FN-2187._ _Were you given permission to lie down?_

_No, Captain. I’m sorry, Captain._

FN-2187 is put to work with the TIE maintenance engineer teams and the astromechs. At the end of his cycles he returns to the wet-room covered in fighter grease and gear oil, and he smells of sweat and grime. It is a punishment. The Captain makes him memorize the making of a TIE/sf space superiority fighter, justified by saying, _Perhaps now he won’t be so afraid of it the next time he’s put in the sky._

He is stationed in the Special Forces’ starfighter hangar every cycle, surrounded by PO-1888’s corps as they march, and take off into space, and tend to their own TIEs. FN-2187 treads the bay on light feet – or as light as is possible in his maintenance gear. His helmet is bulky and uncomfortable to breathe in, and PO-1888 pities him when he is made to descend beneath the fighters and clean their underbellies.

PO-1888 can see him out of the corner of his eye, every cycle, on ladders stretched over the bulkhead of the fighters, scrubbing them until they shine, taking them apart and putting them back together again. He learns the inner workings of the space superiority models quickly, surely faster than the Captain anticipated, when his thin lips pull down into an imperious scowl.

According to his previous commanders, FN-2187 is a prodigy. He learns fast, faster than any cadet they’ve seen before. And they don’t say it aloud, but PO-1888 knows they’re scared to lose him to the hated empathy that eats him up like a disease. He is too kindhearted, too compassionate, and it makes for a terrible stormtrooper.

He hates maintenance, and taking things apart only to put them back together again. But he does it with a reverence and a talent that makes the Captain grimace. He treats the TIE/sf’s twin reactors with a care they do not deserve, and he taints the astromechs with kind words. He is dangerous, but he is too valuable to kill.

PO-1888 thinks he understands. Though for the wrong reasons. FN-2187 is dangerous, that much is true. But it is because of his utter humanity. The saintly, holiness of his skin; the claminess and the disease. PO-1888 constantly replays the memory in his head, he doesn’t think he can ever forget it. FN-2187’s sweat and water soaked skin, inflamed with vertigo and nausea, more alive than anything or anyone he’d ever seen before. He was alight with it.

The utter fragility and expendability of his skin, burning beneath the hot spray. PO-1888 thinks he might be obsessed. Others just glide blindly through the world – through the horrors and the tragedies that they blithely commit. But FN-2187 notices, and second-guesses. He is too empathetic. He is perfect. He is a beacon of blinding light in the darkness, a sliver of beautiful, flushed brown skin amongst the swath of white plastoid and PO-1888 can’t seem to look away. He can’t remember anything so beautiful.

Maybe they took that away, when they reconditioned him. He has difficulties remembering things, and difficulties knowing what is important and what isn’t. What they might have missed. It’s a struggle, but he knows there are memories he shouldn’t have, ones they tried to wipe away; moments of him acting out, going off course, talking back. The knowledge that they’ll never have him decommissioned no matter how many times he does something prohibited, or no matter how many times he begs. He’s too much of a prize; one that breaks and breaks and breaks, but they keep patching him up again. They have blinded themselves with their own arrogance. PO-1888 grows to hate them, but they’ll never let him go.

They’ll never kill him.

He wants them to. But he’s too much of a prize, a spoil of war. A stolen child.

He had nightmares, and wakes up more often than not in a cold sweat brought on by those spiralling thoughts. He is desperate for answers that will never be found, and desperate for some way out. He wants to take his TIE fighter and disappear into the vacuum of space, somewhere far away.

He doesn’t get much sleep. Sometimes he wishes that he was put on ice like the infantry, so he wouldn’t have to worry about things like sleep, and the darkness of things like wants, and dreams.

 

 

 

Their TIE breaks down. Twos offhandedly blames PO-1888 for this, pinning it on his impulsive flying. They are grounded by the Captain until their fighter is repaired, and PO-1888 can feel himself becoming restless. He and Twos do a general inspection of their fighter until the maintenance arrives, and PO-1888 is barely able to endure his gunner’s vapid commentary. He just sits in the piloting control, staring through the viewpoint. Twos abandons him, in search of a new assignment (PO-1888 is grateful for this).

“Alright Rook?” Twos jeers in passing as he exits their pod, noticing FN-2187 coming up the embankment, still the only one without his red stripes, “How’s washing out?”

PO-1888 sees when FN-2187 recoils. He bows his head, readying to turn around, and return to the bay floor, “I have to get a replacement piece” he stutters, making an excuse, “the– the deuterium is blown, it needs a new charge.”

“If this is about the generator,” PO-1888 calls out to him, trying to get his attention, “it’s being overtaxed in flight and making the pod overheat. We’re boiling alive in here.”

FN-2187 turns back around. He hasn’t stepped into the pod, but he leans in, head turning like he’s inspecting the innards, deliberately avoiding PO-1888’s masked face. “I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do about the overheating problem,” he says, voice tainted and low, “The cooling systems are only experimental– ion-flux, but I’m sure you knew that. Nothing I can do about it if Sienar-Jaemus doesn’t even know how to fix it.”

“Well, it was worth a shot, I suppose,” PO-1888 tilts his head to the side, coyly, “Apparently you’re a genius or something.”

Finally, ducking low, FN-2187 steps into the pod. What PO-1888 doesn’t expect, is for him to close the hatch door behind them. It locks with a violent hiss, creating a vacuum seal. The pod has fallen into darkness, the small lights from PO-1888’s control panel reflecting off of the black plastoid of their uniforms. It’s not private here, but they’re both desperate for a moment of peace, however forged it is. Filtered air automatically begins to circulate through the small cabin. FN-2187 removes his helmet, setting it down on the seat in Twos’ empty gunner post.

They fall into a false sense of security, pleading that Twos doesn’t come back. PO-1888 removes his helmet as well, relishing in the click of the fastening as he disconnects it. They know their helmets have comms that are always monitored, but their words aren’t explicitly criminal.

“You hate when they call you that,” PO-1888 says in the silence.

The flinch is a small thing, mostly hidden by the shroud of dark shadow that envelops them, but it’s there all the same. FN-2187’s lips pull tight in a rueful smile, “It’s just a name, not like I have an actual one,”

“You hate it,” PO-1888 says again.

“They called me Eight-Seven when I was with Captain Phasma’s FN Corps,” he offers, in a detached way.

“Do you want me to call you Eight-Seven?” PO-1888 looks him in the eyes. FN-2187 shows no fondness for the name. PO-1888 licks his lips, “Well what about FN? You’re the only one who isn’t a Piloting Officer.”

He just looks down to his feet, biting his lip. PO-1888 huffs out an amused breath, “Well, what about… Finn?”

His head lifts, daring to look PO-1888 in the eyes. A slow, genuine grin shows itself, “Yeah, I like that,” he says smiling, testing the name on his tongue, “Finn.”

“Good.” PO-1888 grins back, “Finn.”

After a moment, he licks his lips. “Poe.”

“What?” PO-1888’s brows knit together.

“For you.” Finn smiles, “Piloting Officer, Poe.”

PO-1888 doesn't remember ever smiling so wide, “Okay,” he agrees, nodding, “Poe.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read somewhere about the different prefix designations for stormtroopers and that the TIE pilot designation is TI…. but i’m just gonna ignore that and make it PO for ‘pilot officer’ which is a real air force designation (P/O) and also it works for ‘Poe’ so ya 
> 
> I also want to clarify that even though Poe is in the First Order in this AU, none of the other members of the Resistance are. So Jess, Snap, etc. are all still Resistance ~ I just wanted to explain that now bc they’re going to come into play as characters later.
> 
> I also listened to Gods and Monsters by Lana del Rey like way too much while writing this, I think it may have affected me 
> 
> [In the land of gods and monsters,  
> I was an angel.  
> Living in the garden of evil,  
> Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed.  
> Shining like a fiery beacon,  
> You got that medicine I need  
> Fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly.  
> Put your hands on my waist, do it softly.  
> Me and God we don’t get along, so now I sing.]
> 
> Like … if that isn’t poe and finn…. Idk what to tell you
> 
> i’m always on tumblr @thedamnstars


	2. Unforgiving Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this took longer than I thought it would

PO-1888 gets used to living with something like a smile constantly growing on his lips. He’s not used to that feeling, the tugging at his face that stretches his flesh and his jaw and makes his cheeks hurt – but he can’t say for certain that he totally dislikes it. If he is smiling it means that Finn is around, and Finn makes him feel something dangerously close to happiness.

It’s strange that someone he has known for barely ten cycles has managed to change him so. He barely knows Finn at all, but his chest has a new lightness that he’s never felt before. When he flies out, there’s always someone waiting for him back on the Finalizer; someone other than the Captain, waiting for his flight inspection to be submitted. Finn waits for him every day, in his corner of the mechanic’s nest, surrounded by the astromechs and spare pieces of equipment. Finn works tirelessly, solely focused on his repairs and his Maintenance projects until the end of the cycle, when Bay Two is cleared for docking and he suddenly abandons his work to look up.

FN-2187 waits patiently every cycle, watches reverently every time Poe retethers his fighter and disembarks from the pod. There’s always the possibility of getting flak for negligence (the Captain already patrols him more than the others), but still Finn watches as Poe makes his way down the embankment to the bay floor, a hand sitting dormant atop his projects, a tool hanging limp in his grip – distracted by Poe in his inky flight uniform striding across the hangar to reach the Captain.

Poe always steals a look at Finn. Every cycle, as he crosses the hangar with Twos at his side, Poe turns to look over his shoulder at him. Poe’s face is covered and so is Finn’s, but it means something. Their chests both swell, in their own small, private way. In the way one’s does when they realize someone has been restlessly waiting to see them. A warm heat spreads through Finn’s body, and he allows himself that small moment before ducking down and returning to work.

Beneath his helmet as PO-1888 makes his way across the hangar, a private smile grows on his lips – one that feels coy, and tugs at the left side of his mouth. His cheeks hurt.

He reports diligently to the Captain but can’t keep his mind focused long enough to understand the commands spat at him – he thinks about Finn bent over his worktable. His broad shoulders and his curled fingers. Every bit of him is covered by plastoid or nylon but still PO-1888 can imagine the skin beneath, the grin on FN-2187’s lips when he looked up and saw Poe across the bay.

PO-1888 wishes he’d been able to see that smile. He wishes he’d been able to see the shape of Finn’s mouth, uncovered by the helmet, shout his name across the hangar just to get his attention. He’s only seen Finn smile once or twice, but he knows he loves it.

 _“Poe!”_ he would have yelled. Finn would stand up so quickly that his work stool would scrape against the floor, but he wouldn’t care. He’d be smiling so big and happy, and he would wave his arm in a comically enthusiastic way that would have made Poe laugh and smile back at him. He would have felt warm, and happy at the use of his new name.

He tries his best to become used to it, the new name. Finn’s voice repeats it over and over in his head, like an echo saying _Poe, Poe, Poe_.

He licks his lips and whispers the name low, _“Poe.”_ It’s foreign on his tongue, but he loves it. It feels like something that’s only his.

PO-1888 never had anything of his own, besides the armor that sits in his drawer of effects, and the missing splinters in his memory. He tests the name on his tongue and it feels like something of his own.

Finn likes to whisper it to him in the corridor, in the armory, in the hangar. He leans close – nothing that would rouse suspicion but close enough that only Poe can hear him – and he repeats it low and quiet. It makes PO-1888 smile, and he knows Finn can feel his contentment even when they have their helmets on.

Poe much prefers to hear Finn whisper his name in the barrack after the cycle ends, or in the wet-room, when Finn isn’t wearing his uniform and Poe can see his lips move around the sound of the name. He likes the way the side of Finn’s mouth twitches up when he says it. And he likes the way Finn tilts his head to the side with satisfaction when he knows he’s made Poe happy.

Finn is radiant.

Finn is perfect.

Finn is like a star that shines in the distance, far, far away.

Poe likes it even better when he repeats Finn’s name, because when he does, it makes Finn smile. Finn grins in the wet-room when they clean off after a cycle, happy to have something that's his – something that doesn't feel like a weight on his shoulders. ‘Eight-Seven’ was a weight, ‘Rook’ was a weight, but _Finn_ is pure and light and lovely. It forms on PO-1888’s lips with an ease that he didn’t know he could have ever felt.

It’s strange, that a simple name could bring this about, this sudden lightness in Poe’s chest.

He doesn’t think it could have happened any other way. He can’t open himself up like Finn, who is easy with his smiles. It’s like Finn can’t control the tugging at the sides of his mouth – making his face lighten and his shoulders suddenly uncoil. Poe thinks it’s the closest thing he’s ever seen to contentment. Like a light, finally shining through the unforgiving dark. Poe doesn’t think he could share the intimacies of his life with someone, the gnawing thoughts that make his insides ache. He doesn’t think that Finn deserves that. But he sees Finn’s smile, and suddenly it feels easy.

Other times it doesn’t. Other times, Poe can’t stop thinking about that gnawing at his insides, and the things that make him ache. Sometimes when he stands beneath the hot spray, he can’t help but think about the darkness, the black, those spiraling thoughts.

They were raised in the dark. In the black. They were brought up in a void that looked back at you, in uniforms that reflected their covered eyes, in hidden spaces where nothing is secret. Poe was raised like hundreds of thousands of others, in the dark, and in the black; taught to hate, taught to kill, taught to be nothing but an expendable number. You live, you die, you live for the First Order. For the Captains, for the General, for the Supreme Leader, for the legacy of the Empire. You are expendable. You live to die.

Poe doesn’t think Finn deserves that.

Poe hates himself. He scrubs his skin hard enough that red welts rise on his flesh. He thinks of Finn’s smile, that brilliant light, and knows deep inside himself that even Finn’s brightness is not enough to scrub him clean.

He lays down in his bunk, cold and wet, and sleeps the sleep of a dead man.

 

 

 

Finn is always the last to sleep and the first to rise.

Poe can hear him in the early hours, getting himself into his maintenance jumpsuit, the plastoid shell snapping together as he sets it in place. He’s gotten used to it now; it only takes a few minutes to get ready before he’s out the door of the barrack, heading to the Special Forces starfighter wing before anyone else has fully risen. Poe thinks he likes the easy stillness, and the time to think. He wonders what it is that goes on inside that brilliant head of his, a mind that can memorize the workings of a TIEs/f space superiority in four cycles flat.

By the time Poe makes it to his own fighter at call time, Finn is already performing maintenance on it. The pod still overheats and Poe still feels like he’s being boiled alive sometimes, but the engines run beautifully and the TIE works like she’s brand new. Finn fixed her the first day he was called to repair it, and really there’s not much else he can work on. Maybe he just likes making excuses to see Poe during the cycle. 

Finn works on the TIE under the guise of “precaution”, to make sure it “doesn’t break down again”. He services the flight controls in the cockpit – though it appears to be more like aimless tinkering than actual repairs – while PO-1888 supervises (technically he is FN-2187’s superior, as Finn has still not secured his place out of Maintenance punishment and into the Special Forces unit).

Finn works diligently. He checks the power cells on the TIE’s underbelly, and the response of Poe’s fly-by-wire control systems even though they were designed with redundancies that provide for less standardized maintenance. He even checks the condition of the ejection seats and safety controls, even though the Captain doesn’t care much for the general safety of his pilots. Poe can hear him let out a muffled yawn every few minutes.

When he finishes his superfluous inspections, Finn leans his covered back against the entry to Poe’s pod. Finn is tired, and it shows. His shoulders sag beneath the weight of his armor.

Beneath his helmet, Poe lick his lips. “Sit,” he says, nodding to Twos’ gunner position. They won’t be able to see each other, but it’s better than nothing. At least they’ll be in each other’s presence. At least Finn will get some rest.

Finn doesn’t say anything, but Poe imagines that he’s pressing his lips together in that way he does sometimes. Finn turns to hermetically seal the pod door, letting it close with a resounding hiss. He takes his helmet off, but instead of sitting in Twos’ post, he drops to the cold metalloid floor. It can’t be comfortable – he has pressed himself down in the space between the door and the cockpits, and his bulky uniform must be cutting into his skin – but he can see Poe like this and their feet are brushing together. Finn folds his legs in front of him the best he can and drops his helmet into his lap, his head tilted back. A yawn escapes him.

Poe removes his own helmet and feels himself chuckle. His hair is matted to the top of his head, and with a gloved hand, he moves to run his fingers through it. Below him, Finn rubs against his tired eyes.

“You don’t get very much sleep, do you?” Poe asks, and it’s more like a statement than a question. He already knows the answer. Finn hardly sleeps at all.

Finn tilts his head to the side and replies truthfully, “I’m not really used to it. Sleeping, that is.” He rubs at the back of his neck, “It’s not something I’ve ever done before. Or _remember_ doing, I guess. When I was infantry, I was just put on ice — black out for hours on end.

“I don’t like the _quiet_ of the barrack,” he says the word like it’s something terrible, “everyone else is asleep and it just feel like I can hear the metal in the vents rearranging itself and the sound of everyone’s breathing, and the footsteps out in the corridor. There’s no peace, like it’s too quiet and too loud all at the same time. And I’ve never had a bed before—”

Finn is rambling. His fingers have dropped down and gone tight around the curve of his helmet. He is suddenly aware of the stress in his shoulders and his hands, and releases the tension with a sigh. Finn focuses his gaze on Poe. His eyes are glassy, and he blinks one too many times for it to be natural.

Sometimes Poe forgets that Finn is just as broken as he is, he forgets that someone so beautiful could possibly be hurting inside.

“—I mean, it’s not so bad,” Finn says in a high voice, like he’s trying to pull back the words, the emotion he let slip. A private smile growing on his lips. “You’re there.” 

Poe ducks his head, grinning. When he leans back again he leaves his helmet in his post and slides to the floor beside Finn. It’s much more cramped here than he thought it’d be, but he doesn’t mind so much. His entire left side is pressed against Finn’s body. “Don’t go back to the Maintenance hub,” he says, in a low voice, “Stay here with me.”

Finn huffs, tracing idle patterns across the helmet in his hands, “What does that even mean, Poe? I can’t not show up.”

“I miss you when you go away,” PO-1888 says, and immediately regrets it. “…and I get restless unless I’m flying. Don’t go back, just stay here until I have to undock with Twos and the Fleet.”

“I have other assignments.” Finn reminds him, “And saying something like that will get you punished… they would send us for reconditioning if they heard me entertaining your stupid ideas.” 

“Only if they suspect something, and they never scrub the comms without reason.” Poe tells him, with a bit too much confidence, “Just act like you always do.”

Finn huffs, “Poe, acting the way I always do is what got me put on Maintenance.”

“You look good in the Maintenance gear,” he grins, slyly.

“I smell like a mech.” Finn tries to sound put out, but he’s grinning all the same, “It’s gross.”

 

 

 

Finn returns to the Maintenance hub. Poe was deluding himself if he thought Finn would do otherwise.

Finn returns in time to finish his other assignments, and Poe flies out with Twos in time to intercept a civilian freighter that found its way on the wrong side of the system. Special Forces ransack the freighter and kill the crew. It is done out of sport rather than necessity, and Poe feels bile stinging at the back of his throat. Their pod begins to overheat halfway through the trip back to the Finalizer, and Poe is covered in sweat, crawling out of his skin by the time he drags himself to the wet-room to wash off. 

He still manages to send a desperate look Finn’s way, though he knows it won’t be communicated with all the anxiety that he feels. The black helmet and the uniform cast a veil over any emotion he tries to impart across the bay. He just hopes that Finn is done with his cycle.

With shaking hands, Poe disrobes in the wet-room. His skin is clammy, and covered in gooseflesh by the time he stumbles towards the tiled stall. Desperately, he turns on the spray, cold skin shocked by the sudden, boiling heat. He turns his face up to embrace the water, ignoring the stray troopers who wash routinely around him. The showers beside him remains empty, and Poe desperately hopes that Finn will arrive. He shuts his eyes tight, washing his face, spitting away the water and the suds, and tries his best to breathe deep.

A figure moves into the corral beside him, and Poe refuses to open his eyes for fear that it is not Finn standing there. The trooper turns on their spray, basking in the heat for a moment, before turning to the side and leaning into PO-1888’s space.

Finn’s voice comes low and soft, like velvet, “ _Poe,_ ” he whispers.

Something akin to happiness blooms in Poe’s chest, though to him it feels like a lightness, like a fire in his throat. His naked skin submits to the hot water that rushes over him; pores opening, skin heady. When he opens his eyes through the spray, Finn is grinning like he’s trying not to, lips pressed tight together but tugging up anyway. He dips his head low and turns his back so Poe can’t see his face anymore, his nudity completely exposed.

There is something reassuring about the dimples at the small of Finn’s back, the twin recesses in his skin. Poe stares at them intently. 

Something about learning the contours of Finn’s being, the skin in which he lives, fascinates Poe endlessly. Maybe it's the thought of knowing something completely — every dip, every crevice and hair. Poe knows his fighter, his space superiority; but Finn is different, Finn breathes, and shudders and smiles. Maybe it’s being able to understand that there’s person who also lives inside that shell of black armor, someone else trapped, someone else like him.

He learns what he can from a distance; watching as Finn’s hands glide over his naked flesh, soapy bubbles blithely obscuring the barely visible hair that grows along his skin, inching down his spine.

Poe wishes to know the entirety of Finn’s skin. But there is only so much he can learn from where he stands a foot away; he longs to reach out and finally learn if the skin puckers, if gooseflesh rises only in the cold, or if his touch could bring it on too.

Poe is terrified.

Poe can start to feel the beating of his heart in his chest, a metronomic thumping that makes his whole being shake. A fire lights somewhere deep, below. He is not meant to feel this way, was taught to repress this. The sexuality of a body is associated with feral, unseemly things; disgusting things which should not be expressed, but rather left untouched in the back of one’s mind. You could be taken away, reconditioned and changed for exploring yourself, for loving another.

But Poe is so fascinated by the smooth of Finn’s skin; the beauty of him. And something hurts in his gut. He washes himself with practiced hands, watches Finn do the same, and pretends like he hasn’t fallen in love with the way Finn smiles at him every time their eyes meet through the water.

He tries to push it down — the heat, the beauty, and the softness of Finn’s skin that makes Poe want to reach out and tou— he pushes it down and tries to hate himself. He shouldn’t feel this way. He knows better than to feel this way. 

It is dangerous to look at Finn the way he does, he is sure that his face betrays him. If anyone saw the reverence PO-1888 holds for FN-2187, they would take him away, recondition him. They would take away his memories of Finn.

Poe hides it away, pushes it, stuffs it down. Represses it.

He convinces himself that every time their eyes meet through the spray that it’s nothing more than blind comradeship. PO-1888 tells himself that they are nothing close to reassuring, knowing looks. He tells himself that though he may look at Finn’s nakedness and hate himself, there is no scenario in which Finn is doing the same. That would be cause for intervention. That would be cause for detox, for isolation, for reprogramming. That would be cause for losing all memories of Finn, for never seeing him again, for being stationed next to him every cycle and never again knowing who he is.

 

 

 

In the coming days, PO-1888 lowers his gaze when he looks at FN-2187, even in the moments when his eyes are covered by the black plastoid helmet. It just feels like the Captain can see through it.

 

 

 

Poe has a dream that one of the young pilots, a rookie called Naughts, attacks Finn in the corridor. PO-4000 is much younger than Finn, barely graduated from the Academy, but she is dexterous and agile. Too fast to be caught. Naughts attacks Finn in the open, a Captain or an Officer more than likely to walk by – but still she climbs onto his back and gouges at his eyes – Twos and Straights cheering her on as they watch from a distance. They have no fear of an impending punishment from the Captain.

It wouldn’t be Naughts and Twos and Straights who would be punished for committing violence upon Finn’s body. It would be Finn – Finn who curls in upon himself, and holds his arms against his body like a child – who would be carried away, and punished for failing to defend his soft skin. It would be Finn who would be labeled as weak, wilting, cowardly. Finn would be reduced to a state even lower than what he is now, to something less than a mech engineer. He would be turned into cannon fodder, placed on the ground of a war-torn planet to be shot at, speared through, made into something less than expendable flesh in a plastoid suit; forced to pull a trigger, to kill and be killed.

Poe cannot take his eyes off Finn’s bloodied skin and his cracked armor. He jumps at Naughts, pulling her away from Finn’s body.

Suddenly, he feels hands on his shoulders, dragging him from the violent throng. “Poe, stop. Please–” Finn yells, voice crackling beneath his shattered helmet as he grapples against the ebb of Poe’s erratic body, “wake up, you’ll hurt yourself, wake up—

Poe jolts awake, lurching far enough out of his bunk that he almost collides with Finn, who has precariously balanced himself on the berth ladder to stir him.

“Sorry, I—” Poe starts. Sleeping has given him cottonmouth, and his eyes feel bloodshot in the light of the barrack. His skin feels hot. It is by sheer force of will that Poe manages to support himself; his muscles feel weak, useless.

“You’re sweating,” Finn observes, eyes squinting as he stares at Poe, “Come on,” he whispers, starting down the ladder like he expects Poe to follow.

“And be quiet,” he adds, waiting patiently as Poe makes his way down the berth ladder, “it’s a miracle no one woke up.”

Poe tries to huff, a small show of his exasperation, but when he lands on the hard floor of the barrack, his legs wobble and he is scared that he might topple over. Finn helps to right him, steady hands against the side of Poe’s waist and arm.

The bright light of the wet-room stings his eyes, the sterile whiteness burning in its intensity. Poe drops himself onto the bench meant for their dirty uniforms, sitting astride it, with one foot on either side, back hunched and feet curled. He has allowed himself to be far too vulnerable in this place far too many times.

His head hangs low, and as his eyes slide shut, he can sense Finn moving around him. Water runs for a moment, the sound of a gentle, slow running tap. And soon he can feel Finn at his side again, moving to sit in front of Poe, pressing a wet flannel to his face. The water is hot but not scalding, and the skin of his cheeks and his forehead brighten as the washcloth passes over them.

Still, even as Poe watches Finn’s dark eyelashes move as he reverently follows the contours of Poe’s cheeks, the bags beneath his eyes feel heavy and sallow, like they cut directly into his skin and weigh down his whole being.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Finn asks in a quiet voice, breaching the silence.

When Poe answers, a simple, quiet, “No,” his voice cracks so terribly that it becomes obvious he’s only seconds away from letting out a sob. He tries to open his lips to answer again, but all that escapes is a pained noise that comes like a whine, and Poe moves a hand to cover his mouth. He shuts his stinging eyes.

Poe wishes that he had remained numb, that he had remained ignorant to the atrocities of the First Order. He wishes that he was not self-aware, he wishes that he was blind like Twos or cold-hearted like Straights. Poe wishes that he could kill without mercy, because maybe if he could, he would feel less disastrous inside; maybe he would feel a bit less like he is dying.

He wishes that he was blithely unaware of the First Order plaguing the galaxy, and his role within it. Most of all he wishes that Finn had been spared.

He feels unlucky to have exposed Finn to the mess of him, inviting Finn to watch as he implodes, like a star collapsing in on itself. He feels like he is sucking up all the light around him, pulling in Finn’s brilliance, only to destroy it in his wake. The Captain will uncover him, his false fealty and destroy him – destroy the both of them. All of Finn’s brilliance, all of his intelligence, wiped away.

Finn raises a hand to cup Poe’s cheek, to wipe away a tear which Poe hadn’t even felt.

Finn’s skin is coarse, fingertips dry and toughened, and littered with new scars from his mech shifts. His fingers ghost against the flesh of Poe’s cheek, his palm holding against him like he is something precious, or worth protecting. His voice comes in a whisper, like satin, “I see you, Poe,” he says.

Something wrenches in PO-1888’s gut. Something terrible and all consuming, like a desperation, and something like frustration with himself. His eyes burn, and he tries not to blink. But Finn’s hand only reasserts itself against him, only making itself more known. “I see you Poe,” Finn says again, “I do.”

Finn’s eyes are so sad, so big and wide and dark, “They made us this way,” he presses, “But they don’t own us. _Please_ Poe, you know I feel it too.”

Finn feels it too. Finn is gentle, and Finn is kind. And Finn understands when the only thing Poe wants is to run away. Poe licks his lips, bites at them to keep himself from falling apart at the seams.

Finn knows. Finn understands that the First Order is an infection, lowly and wrong and cruel. They stole them from their families, from their homes, and turned them into _this._ Killers, and weapons, and victims. Finn tries to smile, his lips turning up in a way that tries to be reassuring. Poe tries to smile back for him, but it turns into a tainted, twisted thing that has him on the edge of letting out a sob. He drops his forehead into the crevice of Finn’s shoulder, beside his neck, and allows himself to be taken care of as Finn gently pets at his hair.

He feels the press of Finn’s lips against his forehead in a gentle kiss. It is a small thing, grounding and reassuring, and as Poe clings to the muscle of Finn’s arms, he feels a bit less alone. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about engineering I'm pretty sure all of my fighter descriptions make zero actual sense
> 
> as always, i'm on tumblr @thedamnstars


	3. Holiest Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn and Poe are separated, and a sudden arrival brings Hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a slow writer oops. This chapter is over 5k, so I hope you enjoy it!

_i. BEFORE_

They wake with a start.

The door to the Piloting Officers barrack opens with a resounding hiss and three uniformed infantry troopers enter, their boots clanking against the metalloid floor. PO-1888 rubs at his tired eyes, still mostly asleep; unconsciously, he has grabbed the thin blanket and pulled it close to his chest, a meager attempt at self-defense. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Finn doing the same, legs curled under himself, back taut.

“FN-2187,” the foremost most trooper summons, an officer with a red pauldron adorning his shoulder, “You have been reassigned. Dress and follow me.”

Poe turns to look completely at Finn, as have the other POs who were awakened by the Officer’s voice. Finn’s eyes have gone wide, and for the most fleeting second his gaze desperately flits up to seek out Poe’s. Poe sees fear in that look. Steadily, Finn presses his lips together and drops down from the bunks to dress in his mech uniform. He gathers up his helmet, holding it squarely in his hands, and swallows.

“Faster,” the Officer barks, pulling Finn up and shoving him out of the barrack, into the corridor. Poe’s knuckles go white, nails biting into the flesh of his palms to keep himself from doing something reckless. Before the door closes, Finn manages to steal a harried look at Poe over his shoulder. They find terrified panic in each other’s eyes.

And then Finn is cut from view, the door sliding shut with a derisive hiss. An overwhelming silence falls over the barrack. Poe’s grip goes slack.

 

 

 

 

 

_ii. AFTER_

Finn’s sleep-weary limbs move gracelessly as he is marshalled through the dim corridors. His body feels ragged and his vision is hazy, and his limbs are being pushed forward for him by the strong muscles of the officer’s troopers. They march him deeper into the passages of the Finalizer, to the upper levels of Hangar Six, where the Control personnel conduct their work. Finn has never been here before, has never been _invited_ here before. The walls are the same epoxy black as the rest of the ship, reflective and cold, but there is an air of the Order’s upper echelons here; unmasked Captains, uniformed Command Officers and staunch Lieutenants who FN-2187 has never been important enough to meet.

Nothing commits itself to memory. He is escorted along too quickly to make sense of the hushed whispers around him, the coordinates and assault plans revealed in the chatter from high-ranking passersby. Images of faces flash like bright lights against his eyes. The adrenaline of being pulled from his bunk has left him anxious and shaking, but still his body is tired and his eyelids threaten to fall closed. He is ushered past Captains and Commanders, the crisp lines of their starched uniforms all that Finn sees as he lowers his gaze when they march by, as is required upon crossing a superior.

The troopers pull Finn to stop before an unmarked metal door. It looks no different to the others lining the corridor, but something like panic leaves his insides churning. For all he knows, prison may lie in wait for him on the other side of that wall, or a reconditioning module. A trooper unlocks the hatch and the door opens.

Commanding the attention inside is Colonel Kaplan, marked by his uniform insignia, standing at parade rest. He is the first familiar face Finn has seen, charged with running all of Bay Six, ranking even higher than Poe’s flight Captain. Kaplan is tall and plain and pale, and two hard lines are etched into the skin just beside his frown. Two lower-ranking officials flank his right side, one Lieutenant and one Petty Officer. It seems that nothing more sinister than bureaucracy occupies the module – a simple desk in the corner with a holo and filing cabinets lining the otherwise bare walls. Across from the door, a glass window as big as the wall overlooks Hangar Six. And yet, it feels worse than any prison. When Finn has both feet steadily on the ground, and thinks he can manage not to collapse beneath his own weight, the Colonel approaches him with a bulletin held between his spidery hands.

“Trooper FN-2187,” he says, looking down his nose at Finn, “you are being reassigned. Your current uniform is unsuitable; strip down to replace them.”

Before Finn can ask why this is happening or where he is being transferred, a new uniform is thrown at him by the Lieutenant. Finn barely catches the heavy uniform, has it awkwardly in his hands, as he watches the Lieutenant return to Kaplan’s side and open his holo-file.

Finn strips, dropping his mechanic’s uniform on the ground. The Colonel proceeds, and Finn is distracted by the holographic version of himself hovering just above the Lieutenant's file. It spins, showing off every angle of his sallow face, and the Colonel’s voice thrums against his ears, “—you will be placed in the charge of Lieutenant Mitaka.”

Lieutenant Mitaka pays little attention to them. Kaplan motions to the Lieutenant, and Finn looks at him more clearly: cherub faced with ruddy cheeks but stony, focused eyes that dare not flit from the holo, only looking up occasionally from Finn’s file to cross-reference some noteworthy piece of information about his nude flesh. _What has remained unmarred, where he has been injured, shot, stabbed, burned and/or scarred? How well was the merchandise kept?_ Checking ticks off a list.

Nakedness is commonplace, it is procedure and regulation and mundanity. But nothing has ever made FN-2187 feel more like an insect than Lieutenant Mitaka’s stare. Black hair peeks out from beneath his cap and his eyes rake up Finn’s nude skin. Finn feels like a specimen, inventory, _thing._  

“He will oversee your transition and you will treat him as a direct superior.” The Colonel’s words corral Finn’s tired gaze, focusing on the drag of his lips and the raggedness of his voice, “The same can be said for Petty Officer Thanisson, you will treat him with respect. He will be training you for vocation in Command Hangar Six.”

Finn nods lamely, looking over at the Petty Officer. Thanisson is pasty and flaxen and thin, and a muffled simper pulls at the side of his mouth as he watches Finn’s naked body before him, the back of a hand pressing against his lips to keep the sound of his chuckle from escaping. There is something tainted about it. Finn decides he doesn’t much like Petty Officer Thanisson, even if this boy is his superior. He must be even younger than Finn himself.

Escaping Thanisson’s derisive stare, Finn unfolds the black uniform tunic and stretches it over his head.

After he has pulled a pair of trousers up around his waist and buttons them – stuffing the linen tunic inside as quickly and as neatly as he can – he steps into a pair of stiff boots that rise to his knee-caps; they change his posture immediately, and FN-2187 can feel himself standing almost painfully taller. The Command uniform jacket is heavy black material, like broadcloth, and sits stiffly on his shoulders and at his waist. The First Order insignia adorns his left shoulder. A Petty Officer’s badge – like the one on Thanisson’s uniform – adorns his right.

 

 

“Each Standard Day is broken into twenty-four Standard Hours and six four-hour shifts,” Mitaka explains blandly, leading FN-2187 down unfamiliar corridors. Petty Officer Thanisson trails, bored, behind them. “You are part of Crew Section Two, with shifts from Standard Hour 0400 to 0800 and—

“It’s departure/landings, in and out bullshit, really,” Thanisson interrupts, knocking shoulders with Mitaka to shut him up. They have reached Control, the expansive bridge extending out around them, “You show up when everyone else does and leave when everyone else does; it’s easy. Press some random buttons occasionally, and try not to fall asleep. An idiot could do it. Guess that’s why they got _you_.”

Thanisson looks at Finn, smirking, “—this is just a step-stone for me, soon I’ll be a Lieutenant like Mitaka, here.” He grins impishly, slinging an arm around Mitaka’s shoulders and pulling him close enough to press the side of their cheeks together.

Mitaka pushes Thanisson away with the back of a hand, “Please be quiet, Thanisson. And sit down,” he motions to one of the Bridge chairs, dismissing his Petty Officer. Thanisson rolls his eyes at Mitaka and FN-2187 and slinks down with a huff, to a station which must be his own, because he puts on a small black headset and promptly ignores the both of them. 

Finn’s mind goes fuzzy for a minute, and that minute turns into a long while. He knows Mitaka is speaking to him, can hear his voice even, but the sound feels distant and far away. It feels like there is cotton stuffing his ears. His eyes glaze over and hyper-focus all at once. 

Mitaka’s half muffled speech drones on and on and Finn catches none of it, as his eyes drag over the command center. His eyes rest for a minute, staring at the way Thanisson’s long, spindly-thin fingers flex across the controls, and his words are coming out slow and far away as he sends orders through his headset. The way Thanisson’s fingers flick over the buttons in their controlled, practiced way, reminds Finn of Poe.

Finn tries to contort his face into something that looks like he’s listening, hoping beyond hope Mitaka hasn’t noticed his mind wandering, and wonders what the Lieutenant would do if he did notice? Would he send Finn back for a replacement? Mark him down as defective in his file? Go to Captain Phasma and ask what she was thinking when she sent up someone like him?

After a while, Finn is left with Thanisson to finish the shift. He takes a seat beside this boy who is supposed to be his mentor, and slips on the headset that is handed to him. He listens to the chatter over the radio as he is instructed, and tries to find a singular deep voice amongst the white noise.

He looks out through the window, over the whole of Hangar Six, and wonders if Poe is there. He tries to find Poe’s fighter stationed in the loading dock of Bay Two, but he’s not sure if it’s Poe’s or if he just thinks it is. They all look the same.

He looks out to the stars, the billions of planets beyond, and tries to imagine if there’s a home out there for him. They all look better than where he is.

Finn knows he’ll regret not listening to Mitaka’s detailed tour and Thanisson’s less than enthusiastic explanation of their routine tasks, but Finn’s tired and he doesn’t think he could absorb anything even if he tried.

At the end of their shift, something exciting pulls tight at Finn’s gut, and he imagines for a second he’ll get to return to the Special Forces barrack. But Thanisson places a hand in the middle of his back, and sourly pushes him towards the Petty Officer’s cabin.

They walk for a long while, through well-lit hallways, and a dozen heads turn when Thanisson pushes Finn through the door. Their porcelain faces, with upturned lips and dark, judging eyes, seem to follow Finn everywhere. Apart from their probing stares, they ignore him. They refrain from approaching, making contact or introducing themselves; they avoid him like a plague. How would he introduce himself, anyhow? Even the lowest of officers had names, they are all Academy legacies; all he has is a number.

_FN-2187? Shouldn’t you be down in the Freezer with the others?_

Finn is disgusted by the luxury of it all. He has never felt sheets so soft in his life and it feels like a reward for hatred. Somehow, the comfort of it all feels like an actual home, and the thought makes him curl in on himself.

Thanisson smiles a petty snake-in-the-grass smile, and it sends a shiver up FN-2187’s spine. His grins feel like razor blades that sink deep, biting and twisting in a calculated way. Thanisson and people like him, like General Hux and Captain Phasma, are politicians. Cunning, educated and cultivated for leadership, for dominance. They eat anything in their way, like a snake in the grass, until they are satiated by the meat of their kill. 

When Finn succumbs to his exhaustion and lies beneath real covers for the first time in his life, he feels as though he should be punishing himself instead. He can’t stand the way the thick comforter wraps around him, keeps the cold out. He hates the way the lights turn off and the way he feels a deep, instant relief. His breath comes heavy, in an erratic, unnatural way.

From his bunk, Thanisson asks, “Hey Trooper, can’t sleep with the lights off?” and Finn can feel the poison in it.

 

 

 

 

_iii. THREE CYCLES AFTER_

Is it possible to climb your way out of the dark?

For the first time in his life, FN-2187 doesn’t know the answer to that question. He always thought he could. He always thought he was strong enough to survive the all-consuming darkness of the First Order. Every time Captain Phasma had knocked him down, he got back up again. And again. And again and again. And one day, it brought him to Poe.

FN-2187 had gotten back up enough times to be transferred away from the tyranny of Captain Phasma, and her Corps of FN troopers. But it had brought him to the Special Forces, and a new kind of darkness, in the form of the Piloting Officers. They were dark in a new way, a twisted way. Not in the way of infantry cannon-fodder, who have already given up hope for escape through any other means but death, but in the way of those who bring death to others. The greatest fighters of them all, the _bringers_ of destruction, and they were tainted by their pride and their arrogance. Straights was malicious without cause, hurting even her own. Twos was blind, and ignorant of the destruction he’d wrought. The younger pilots – a new incoming generation – enjoyed the pain and took pleasure in giving it.

FN-2187 hadn’t slept, and hadn’t know if he could ever find peace. (He had found a kind of peace in the Corps, bred in the routine of the drills and the punishments given by Captain Phasma. It was a numb peace. FN-2187 hadn’t had to think about anything else). But that darkness found in the bowels of the Finalizer, in the tiny barracks of the Special Forces, it was an all-consuming thing. It gnawed at him, never to be ignored or forgotten.

He almost misses it now. For all that the darkness of the Special Forces had consumed him, it had also brought him to Poe. Finn longs for him now, with a fierce intensity. Finn is terrified and it practically destroys him.

He longs for Poe’s company, his gilded skin. The memory just isn't quite enough, and within days, Finn can feel the color of Poe’s eyes slipping into obscurity. Finn can't quite remember whether they're closer to the patinated shine of dried mechanical oil, or the soft brown of worn leather. Finn loves them either way, but the haziness of Poe’s face burns at him all the same.

 

 

 

 

 

_iv. TWELVE CYCLES AFTER_

Poe is at the end of his rope. He hadn’t realized how much he had begun to depend on Finn to ground him, and how much it would feel like drifting off into space when he wasn’t near. He hadn’t realized how much it would feel like dying after Finn was taken away. 

It feels like longing and heartache and emptiness, but it also feels something dangerously close to rage. The blood in PO-1888’s veins boils hot, to something close to a fiery pitch, and this anger seems all too familiar, this blinding hatred that leads to rashness. This is the anger that leads to yelling at his superiors, attempting to physically attack the Captain, hijacking a TIE fighter and being dragged away by masked troopers until he is bound to a chair in the Reconditioning Module. It is a heat in his veins that feels like the pain of being erased from the inside out. 

He remembers things he shouldn’t. He remembers the bite of the wrist manacles.

Poe feels that heat again, like something in his chest that creeps into his throat. His heart beats erratically, distracting and painful. He just wants to know that Finn is alright, that Finn is still alive. Poe’s eyes search the bay floor, hoping he might find Finn unmasked among the throng of helmets and astromechs. Desperate, PO-1888 looks out at the dock, under the fighters, up to the flight command module and

Poe has not seen Finn’s face in almost twelve cycles. PO-1888 had dreamt that he might find Finn’s uncovered face among the crowd, but he hadn’t pictured the deep rings beneath his eyes, visible even from where he stands so far away. He hadn’t pictured the black Command uniform, the too-rigid posture of his back, the fidgeting of the hands clasped in front of him.

He is out of the helmet and can finally breathe deep, but every inhale is tinged with anxiety, every exhale barely masked panic. Finn is staring straight ahead, at something far away, past the doors of the Finalizer and into the deep void of space. Possibly he couldn’t hear the commands being spat at him, because Finn jumps and turns his head, and someone is shouting at him, making sure he is paying attention.

Poe can tell that he’s staring. He is jostled by another pilot bumping into him, knocking him off balance. He returns to work, taking one last look at Finn, but quickly lowers his gaze again as is required upon facing a superior.

 

 

 

 

 

_v. THIRTY-ONE CYCLES AFTER_

Finn has seen Kylo Ren stalking the corridors of the Finalizer. His unchecked anger scares the younger Troopers, the ones who aren’t yet used to his sudden hostility. Somehow, it is worse than any training received at the Academy.

Ren paces the length of the Command Bridge sometimes, coming to argue with General Hux over something trivial, and Finn feels every hair on his body stand on edge. The air is tense whenever Ren comes close; it feels staticky and charged with something Finn can't quite name, but it feels old and dark, and close to the Force.

“—You ought not forget your obedience to the Supreme Leader, General,” Ren sneers, as he and Hux pass through Command. Finn’s back tenses. Beside him, he can even feel Thanisson sitting taller.

“I might say the same to you, Ren.”

Finn can hear General Hux approaching the command station behind him. He doesn’t dare turn around, Finn just keeps his eyes forward, and tries his best to look like he’s working. “Your obsession with this Jedi has no correlation to our mission aboard this ship. You would waste resources searching the galaxy for—

“Luke Skywalker _will_ be found!” Ren bites, pausing to tamp down his anger. That name makes Finn’s blood run hot. Static charges the air, electrifies Finn’s skin. In a low voice, Ren says, “The Supreme Leader wills it so. You will give me those troops, or should I tell Snoke that one of his own would obstruct our search?”

Finn can’t move. He can’t do anything. The radio chatter hums against his ear, and his hands have stopped moving across the controls. He is ordered to clear the pilots for takeoff. His fingers can’t move. Finn can’t do anything.

“You are too personally invested in this, Ren,” General Hux says tightly from behind Finn’s back, “It’s starting to show.” 

“Do _not_ condescend to me, Armitage, I—” Ren’s voice peters out, distracted. Finn’s shoulders tense and he can feel eyes on him. The power of their weight burns through his thick uniform, his clammy skin. Nervously, Finn looks over his shoulder, and finds the gaze of Kylo Ren boring through him. Finn can feel the weight of that stare, and it feels as though he is being looked into.

Just when Finn thinks he ought to say something, Ren turns back to General Hux and storms out of Command. Finn is shaking so hard he thinks he might collapse.

 

 

Finn stays awake for a long time, long after the others have fallen asleep. He restlessly lays in bed with his eyes open, and waits for the last of the Petty Officers to drift off. 

The sheets over Finn’s body trap the heat around him like a furnace, and it feels as though he is sweating through his clothes.

Luke Skywalker was mystic and all powerful, and a true enemy of the First Order. Something grows inside of Finn at the sound of that name, something like a vision of the future, where he wasn’t trapped inside his own skin. Finn envisions a place beyond all this, where sunlight can reach his skin, and warm the planes of his face. That name of opposition, of rebellion and strength, ignites something in Finn’s stomach that feels like the will to escape. It feels like the real promise of a future for himself, and for Poe.

In the dark silence, Finn strips out of his sleep kit and puts his bridge uniform back on. He remains as quiet as he possibly can, and the sounds of his hard boots against the floor make his hands shake. He leaves the cabin with his head lowered, and tries to blend in with a hoard of officers who pass by. Finn doesn’t try to follow their conversation, and breaks away when they pass a corridor leading to the lower levels.

He returns to the bowels of the Finalizer, and waits in the shadows beside the Piloting Officers barrack. Finn waits there for a long while, Poe’s team only now being released from their shift. The Special Forces Corps return from the hangar in a homogenous pack, their faces still covered by flight helmets. Finn can pick out Straights from her short stature, and Twos from his wide build, but he’d know Poe anywhere. The air hose attached to his chest plate is already disconnected, his uniform already half off. Poe pulls indignantly at the latch on the back of his helmet, trying to undo the lock, ready to tear it off. 

Finn reaches out from the shadows and grabs Poe by the arm, pulling him into a hidden alcove between seldom used corridors. Poe already knows that it’s Finn, no one else on the ship daring enough to grab another trooper that way. Finn remains silent for a moment, just breathing in Poe’s company.

“Poe,” he starts, the dark shadow of the alcove obscuring his face.

“I can’t be gone long Finn,” Poe whispers, pulling off his helmet. He looks over his shoulder, back to the Corps closing the door of the barrack, “They’ll notice if I’m not back.”

Finn tries again, leaning in, his voice desperate and small, “Poe. Luke Skywalker, he—”

Poe’s eyes snap to him at the mention of that name, “What about him?” He doesn’t look away.

“Ren’s looking for him,” Finn gets out, “That’s what he’s doing with all those search teams. Poe — he’s alive.”

“Alive?” Poe’s mouth falls open, and he heaves out a breath that feels like reverence. Finn nods.

A smile grows on Poe’s mouth, taking over his face, and it feels like the warmth of a sun. His lips tremble and for a moment, Finn thinks he might start to cry. Poe tests the name to see if it’s real, “Luke Skywalker?”

For the first time in his life, the pit in Finn’s stomach doesn’t wrench like it’s killing him. It feels like something close to hope, blooming deep inside is body.

 

 

 

 

 

_vi. NOW_

Rebel leader Luke Skywalker, _defiant_ Luke Skywalker. To Finn and Poe, he is _savior_ Luke Skywalker.

They begin meeting in secret every day, always somewhere different. Sometimes Poe feels a warm hand pull him into the shadows of a corridor. Sometimes Finn finds his way down to the Special Forces washroom, walking with purpose until he’s beneath the stark, sterile lights, and no one stops him for fear of being reported. Sometimes they don’t get the chance to talk, they just glance at each other and nod slowly, but it’s enough just to see one another.

They have imprinted on each other, and perhaps that is a little bit wrong, and perhaps they should have distanced themselves from one another when they had a chance, but now they are inseparable. They are two halves of one beating heart, to cut out one would mean death for the other. It’s not healthy, but then again, they’re only just surviving.

Poe’s skin burns beneath the hot spray in the wet room and he flushes imagining the touch of Finn’s skin on his, head thrown against the sterile tile as he clamps down upon his own bruising lip. He thinks they would touch each other like it’s the last time, and they would love each other for always.

They plan to take Poe’s TIE fighter. Finn cultivates the tiny scraps of information mentioned about Skywalker from his time on the Bridge. He hears snippets of Ren’s plan through gossip from Thanisson and the other Petty Officers, and sometimes General Hux will sweep through the bridge and vent to Colonel Kaplan in a voice he thinks is whispered. Finn tries to look unfazed, but his blood runs hot and his hands shake from desperation. He longs to leave this place; he feels like he might burst out of his skin if he doesn’t.

The collar of his command uniform scratches at his neck, and the belt over his jacket is cinched too tight at his waist and it feels like he can hardly breathe sometimes. He wants to abandon his post and rush down to the bay floor of Hangar Six. Poe will pilot, Finn will be gunner, and they’ll escape.

They never do it.

They always say, _Sleep well, we leave tomorrow. Get your rest, you’ll need it for tomorrow._ Always tomorrow.

Maybe they’re scared. They have nowhere to go, nowhere they could possibly find refuge. If Poe could, he’d fly straight until they came upon the first green planet he saw, but gods know what might be waiting for them there. No, they need more time to plan, more information, more practice, more more more more. More time wasted. It feels like procrastination. It feels like they’re scared to take the final leap. 

Poe isn’t scared of what’s waiting for him. He’ll be with Finn, they’ll be together. But he’s terrified of leaving all the same. The first step will always be the hardest, Poe knows that.

He has no future here; he knows that too. Poe knows he’ll waste away here, until he’s no longer of use, or he is killed in battle. He has no dreams for the future that revolve around anything but Finn.

 

 

Finn abandoned sleep again to see Poe, anxious the entire time that he might get caught as he strode through the Bay floor, marching pointedly towards Poe’s TIE fighter. They hide out in the cockpit with the hatched locked, pressed so close that it feels like they’re sharing the same air. They press into each other, feel each other’s heartbeat, and try to fall into one another’s skin. They have no words for it, and if any exist they must be banned — but they feel need, a thing that pulls at them and desires to be set free.

They whisper, and muse over what it might be like to stand in a green field, completely alone, and feel the cool green grass beneath naked feet. Finn imagines it would be freeing, perfect. Poe thinks it would be better to be up in the sky, to be able to fly anywhere he liked, just because he wants to. Poe wants to fly through the clouds of a green planet, the blue sky cradling him. He wants to be able to look down and see Finn barefoot in his green pasture, smiling and happy to be free.

The cold metal rumbles beneath their entwined bodies, the sound of a ship docking in the hangar. Poe and Finn remain silent, and outside the safety of the flight pod, a silence has fallen over the bay floor. They can’t hear anything anymore, the sounds of work, the grinding of metal and engines, completely ceased. Poe catches Finn’s worried glance, and in the quiet rings out a singular, punishing scream.

They scramble to their feet, and Poe quickly locks his helmet back on before releasing the hatch and peeking outside. Kylo Ren’s Upsilon-class command shuttle is docked in the middle of the hangar, a large crowd of pilots and mechanics congregating around the boarding ramp. No one notices when PO-1888 and an anonymous Petty Officer file in behind them. They hover near the back of the horde, and have to stretch a bit to see over the crowd.

Everyone watches as Ren drags a Resistance pilot behind him. Everyone follows with their masked faces, in awe of his dramatic presence. But Poe can’t keep his eyes off the pilot. Her orange fatigues are sweat stained and her lips are cracked and bleeding, but she glows. She is magnificent. She kicks and screams and refuses to be silenced, even as heavy gloved hands drag her through the hangar.

Poe feels it when Finn’s fingers twine with his, squeezing his hand tight. Poe squeezes back and feels it when a trooper punches the Resistance pilot in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She wheezes and tries not to collapse beneath the weight of her own body, long black strands of hair obscuring her face like a veil.

Her name is Pava. _Testor_ , they called her back home. Ren rips the name from inside her head; tortures her for days; leaves her sweating and unconscious and shackled down in the interrogation module. She shakes, but she never is weak, and even when they beat her she never gives in. She never gives up. Finn and Poe think they each must be a little bit in love with her.

Ren rips information from inside her. He discovers the existence of a BB droid holding a map to Luke Skywalker. Through all of this, Jessika Pava never cries, she never breaks. Finn thinks Pava is radiant, like a shining beacon. Poe thinks Testor is beautiful, like a way home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this one unless my outline changes, but I have zero promises for when that’ll get published. I also think I could eventually extend this AU into a sequel, I have some ideas for what I could write about ~ 
> 
> Hang out w me on tumblr @thedamnstars
> 
> pinterest board for this fic: https://www.pinterest.com/thedamnstars/sw-apwlcnr/


	4. A Barren Paraside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING in this chapter for graphic depictions of violence!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to the last chapter! What a ride this has been, I’ve enjoyed myself and I hope you have too~ and now you don’t have to wait another 6 months for me to post something smh @me !! I kind of want to apologize, this draft was sitting unfinished in its document for almost a year and i just had no motivation to work on it, but im happy to finally be releasing it into the world! If you know any of my other fics you know I’m terrible about abandoning them, so I’m proud to close the door on this monster, who I have loved hard and long
> 
> (Also I planned for finnpoe to do It at some point, but that just didn’t feel right so I didn’t want to push it. If I ever write a sequel I might be able to figure It out, but as it stands now, I don’t think either Finn or Poe are quite ready for that…)
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment, it would make me happy. Also I’m on tumblr @thedamnstars
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING in this chapter for graphic depictions of violence!

Finn and Poe alter the escape plan. Though Finn is wary of joining the Resistance — wanting to stay as far away from skirmishes with the First Order as possible — Poe has other ideas. After the arrival of Jessika Pava, Poe has fantasies of joining them, piloting for the Resistance in the fight against the Kylo Ren and the First Order. He has seen their orange flight jumpsuits, wants to know the feel of that heavy fabric on his skin, the freedom of flight known on the other side.

It’s the first time they’ve ever disagreed about something, and the dispute pulls at Finn’s gut. He is scared for Poe. Poe, who is reckless and daring, and self-sacrificing. Finn would rather find a new home in the farthest reach of the Galaxy, hidden, but safe. Finn knows it’s wrong, wanting to turn away from a fight, but he can’t stand the thought of having to face the First Order again, the thought of losing Poe. They don’t talk about it. Instead, Finn and Poe wholeheartedly decide saving Jessika Pava is the right thing to do.

They bide their time.

And Poe feels pulled taut, ready to burst apart, but he tells himself to calm down. Calm down, and lay low. _Stay quiet until the right moment comes, at least until you have a fighting chance to get out of here._ Poe bites his lip and does his job. He is assigned to trail cargo hulls, menial tasks that are beneath the abilities of a Special Forces pilot. It’s a reprimand. Poe knows it is. The Captain says nothing, simply sneers in Poe’s direction when they pass on the bay floor, but Poe knows a warning when he sees one.

He performs the assigned runs, grits his teeth in the cockpit as he steers them into the blindspot of a cargo freighter, and absolutely hates the sound of his CO spitting commands in his ear. His voice buzzes like an insect.

Instructions come crackling over the comm, ordering Poe to shoot down the freighter. They intend to scavenge it for equipment and spare parts. His vision goes red-hot, and for a lasting moment his body is alight with rage. Poe’s grip tightens around the controls, knuckles white and sees the entirety of his life laid before him: shooting this freighter and never escaping. Having to watch Pava’s mutilated, tortured body thrown out of an airlock after being wrung out for information. Finn, dying slowly from the evil that chokes him like a vice. And Poe, left to rot, alone. Being Reconditioned over and over, until he wastes away unto nothing, just the husk of what he once was.

Poe shuts his eyes tight, forces himself to take a cleansing breath, waits for his blood to cool. The voice in his ear tells him again to shoot down the freighter. 

Poe is calm when he disobeys. He is calm as he watches the freighter fly away into the emptiness of space, and does not do as he is told. The placidity that spreads through his bones is unlike anything he’s ever known, and somewhere deep inside of himself, Poe knows he’ll never feel this kind of satisfaction again. Never again will he know the joy — the sublime passivity — of knowing he has disobeyed his commanding officer.

Twos shouts at him from his cockpit, “What the kriffing hell are you doing, Eights! Listen to the Captain, do your damn job!”

“You say one more word to me, Twos,” Poe says, and even he is surprised at how even his voice is, “I swear on my life, you’ll only have one hand by the time you get off this fighter.” 

The Captain’s angry voice crackles over the comm, “ _PO-1888 return to the loading dock!_ ” 

Poe does not do as he is told. They remain in void space, floating among the stars, and Poe stares into the distance. He answers, “No.”

“ _Failure to return will result in breach of directive. Surrender flight controls to PO-1722 or you will be detained upon arrival and tried for insubordination._ ”

“No.”

“That’s it, Eights!” Two’s shouts, disconnecting himself from his seat in the cockpit, and spinning to grab at Poe. Twos tries to pull him out of his seat, hauling him up by the collar of his uniform, but Poe is strapped into his harness, and it is impossible to move him far.

“ _TIE s/f Team Two, return to the landing pad, that is a direct order._ ” 

Still in his seat, Poe pushes at Twos’ chest, knocking him off balance to the metalloid floor of their TIE. There is barely any room to move between the seats, and Twos trips awkwardly in the small space beside the hatch and the cockpits. Ignoring the call from their Captain, Poe unclasps his harness, and descends upon Twos. He tries to hit him, aims for the center of his flight helmet, but Twos kicks out at Poe’s legs and makes him trip, legs tangled up in the strap of his safety equipment.

_“TIE s/f Team Two respond—”_

Twos forces Poe to the ground, pulling on the plastoid of his flight suit and hooking a leg over his waist to keep him still. The weight of Poe’s flight uniform cracking against the metalloid floor is enough to knock the wind out of him, and Twos’ heavy weight pressing down on his chest makes it difficult to breathe again. There is barely enough room for both of them, trussed up the way they are, and Poe’s body is contorted at an odd angle, his legs halfway trapped by the straps of his harness in the cockpit. He tries to untangle himself, but Twos stops him, adjusting his weight over Poe’s lower body and pinning his legs down at a contorted angle. Twos presses Poe’s leg further into the ground, pushing hard on the bone, and it makes Poe cry out in pain.

“ _PO-1722, report status!_ ” the Captain orders.

Poe collects himself, breathing hard. “You gonna answer that?” he pants, voice ragged and gruff.

Twos hits him, square in the face — hard enough that Poe’s helmet becomes dislodged, and the next time Twos’ fist comes down, it makes contact with the fragile skin of Poe’s cheek.

“ _PO-1722, report status!_ ”

Poe can’t move; he tries to push Twos off, but there’s no room to struggle, and Twos’ weight is almost too much to bear. Poe takes the beating as well as he can; he does not cry out for mercy. He keeps his eyes open. He stares Twos in the face. Poe can see his own reflection in Twos’ black flight helmet, his bruised cheek and mottled skin.

Twos hits him again, and Poe feels his lip split open. Blood from his mouth issues across his face in a hot stream, and Poe remembers the first time he and Finn sat here, pressed together, in this exact same place. Their legs had been intertwined, and Poe had been able to feel the warmth of Finn’s body. The first time he sat here, Poe received his name. Twos punches him again, hard across the face.

Poe feels his eyes begin to water. He feels hot tears falling down his face as Twos hits him. “Harder!” Poe shouts through the blood of his split lip. Even if they try him for insubordination, even if they take him to Reconditioning, he knows he’ll end up here again. Poe knows he’ll end up right here: bleeding, barely conscious, knowing they’ll never be able break him.

Twos hits him hard, just like he asked for, and Poe feels himself slipping into darkness. Poe isn’t scared of dying. For the first time he remembers, the only thing Poe is truly scared of is being dragged to the Reconditioning Module — he is scared of forgetting.

Poe is scared to death that they’ll take Finn away from him. He is terrified they’ll stamp out everything that he’s become. Poe is terrified of being Reconditioned, cleansed from the inside, and never remembering to who Finn is. He’s scared they’ll get Finn too. He’s scared of FN-2187 and PO-1888 being stationed right next to each other in Bay Six, forever staring straight ahead, never knowing who they used to be.

Twos hits him again, and for once Poe doesn’t ask for more; his eyelids slip closed, and he falls into a dark unconsciousness.

 

 

 

“ _Control, this is TIE s/f Team Two, PO-1722; coming back._ ”

 

 

 

“Mm,” Thanisson hums, spinning blithely in his seat beside Finn, staring down at the bay floor of Hangar Six. He presses several buttons on his control panel, “I have you, TIE s/f Team Two. You’re clear for landing.”

Finn perks up at the mention of Poe’s TIE call-sign. Thanisson turns to him, covering the microphone on his headset, “Did you catch that just now?” Finn shakes his head. “One of the pilots went rogue.”

Finn’s stomach drops. He turns to gape at Thanisson, covering his own mic, “What?”

“Just now,” Thanisson says in a blasé way, “My channel was tuned to it, I heard the whole thing. Some PO; he went crazy or something, refused to follow orders. They’re bringing the TIE in now.” He motions to the bay with his chin. Finn follows Thanisson’s gaze, eyes landing on Poe’s TIE fighter being flown back into the launching rack, where a regiment of troopers wait on the bay floor. Poe’s Captain stands at the fore, hands clasped behind his back.

“My guess is they’re gonna send him to Reconditioning,” Thanisson muses, letting go of his microphone and returning to work, “He was Special Forces, too,” he says as an afterthought, shrugging. Finn’s feels his stomach tighten, “Guess there are bad eggs everywhere.”

Finn barely hears Thanisson. He barely hears the chatter of the Control Bridge around him, the voices of the other officers turning into a thick wall of white noise. Finn watches as Poe’s limp body is carried out of the TIE fighter, blood dripping onto the shining epoxy floor. If it weren’t for the way someone cradled Poe’s head, holding it upright to keep him from choking on the blood in his throat, Finn might have thought he was dead. Finn watches the scene in slow motion, feels himself leaning forward in his chair, gripping the armrests far too tight. Finn anchors himself down. He knows if he doesn’t, he’d end up abandoning his post to run after Poe. It would do no good; probably just get them both in trouble.

Poe is in enough trouble, as it is. 

Finn digs his nails into his palms, keeping himself grounded, until Poe’s body is taken out of the hangar. He feels his face go hot, tears forming in his eyes, and he doesn’t have the power to keep them from falling. Abandoning the Bridge for privacy isn’t worth the punishment, so Finn tries to keep quiet and hopes Thanisson has the decency to pretend not to notice.

Finn is numbed by his panic. His body refuses to cooperate, besides the steady shaking of his hands and the painful, familiar cramps turning his stomach inside out. He doesn’t touch his food, and Thanisson, sitting across from him in the Mess, doesn’t prompt him to eat. Finn doesn’t sleep.

He stares at the ceiling, at the tiles that make the dormitory look like a home, though it will always feel more like a cell. Finn can’t get the image of Poe out of his head. He closes his eyes and sees them dragging Poe’s body across the hangar. _My guess is they’re gonna send him to Reconditioning_ , that’s what Thanisson said.

Finn tries to make himself comfortable, turns on the mattress to lay on his side. In the darkness, with his head resting on his hands, Finn can see Thanisson breathing placidly. Thanisson is turned away from him, but the rise and fall of his chest comes easily; _far too easily_ , Finn thinks.

The pulse of his own blood gets louder in his ears, and Finn can feel the beating of his heart. The decision is made in the time between two heartbeats. Finn is sitting up in bed before he has fully thought it through, grabbing at his bridge uniform with shaking hands, knowing he is not being half as quiet as he ought to be.

There may be no point in trying to be brave. But Finn, finding strength in the identity given to him by that name, and finding his existence to be something worthwhile, takes it upon himself to temporarily dismiss all that which might go wrong. Though they try to attack his mind, Finn pushes away the thoughts of what might happen if he is found out; he pushes away thoughts of _being_ found out. Instead, Finn stands in the darkness of the dormitory and disrobes, hoping that no one passes by. When he is fully dressed again, he slips out of the barrack and into the anonymity of the dark corridors.

A lone infantry trooper marches ahead of Finn, the alabaster white of his uniform reflecting the dim light like a pearl; they are about the same weight and stature. Finn clenches his eyes shut and whispers a low apology.

“Trooper,” he says, loud enough to get their attention. The trooper turns over his shoulder, confused, but compliant to the orders of a superior. Finn affects the commandeering voice of Captain Phasma, and feels terrible for it, “What are you doing in this part of the ship? Present your weapon for inspection!”

“Yes sir,” the trooper says, unhooking the blaster from his hip and handing it over to Finn easily. The blaster is heavy in Finn’s hands, serving its purpose as Finn leads the trooper into a dark alcove and hits him over the head with the metal butt of the gun. Before the clanging sound of the unconscious trooper’s armor falling can resound through the hollow corridors, Finn catches him, slowly letting him down to the floor, dragging him further into the shadow.

“I’m sorry,” Finn tells him, “I’m so sorry.”

The trooper’s cheeks are high and dark and just a bit sallow, and Finn wishes he could save him. He can’t; he can’t risk it. He haltingly strips the trooper, awkwardly pulling off his uniform while trying to remain silent in his dark hovel, secluded only by thin shadows and the luck that no one walks this way. He initiates the escape plan, even without Poe to help him, shrugging on the black undersuit of the trooper’s infantry uniform.

In the sterile white armor he had wished never to wear again, Finn gathers up his old bridge suit and folds it gently, making it look new. Finn holds the clothes close, tucking them beneath his arm. It is better to keep a lie as close to the chest as possible; better to have physical evidence than to spin an elaborate, impalpable lie, no matter how convincing.

For the first time in Finn’s life, the anonymity of the white uniform gives him comfort. His ability to sidle up to a group of passing infantry troopers gives him a moment to think, as he joins their company and marches behind them.

Finn does not know Jessika Pava, he does not know whether she will think it wise to trust him, or help him at all. But she is with the Resistance, she knows Luke Skywalker, or knows _of_ him; the shadow of Skywalker’s legacy falls over the Resistance, Finn knows, and whether she knows him personally or not, Testor must believe in his cause. Justice, peace, balance within throughout the galaxy. Finn is the one with reservations, all he truly wants is to make their escape and never looking back.

Finn breaks from the group of troopers, and turns down a corridor that leads to the prison compartments, feeling his shoulders unconsciously broadening. He holds his back straight as he turns towards the module door, and before he can think better of it, the entrance slides open with a hiss.

Finn forces himself not to take in Pava’s beaten features, how there is blood clotted around her nose and mouth. Instead, he prays that his voice does not shake, and he lies, “Ren wants the prisoner.”

The trooper guarding Pava nods once, releasing her without question at the mention of Ren’s name. The metal shackles retract from around Pava, releasing her wrists and legs, and Finn barely gives her time to shake her tired body before guiding her out of the prison module and into the corridor. He doesn’t want to be rough with her, and he hopes he hasn’t grabbed her too tight, but he knows he cannot appear to be gentle. Troopers stare as he pushes her down the corridor by the scruff of her neck, and Finn panics, “Turn here,” he says, turning her sharply into the shadow of an alcove.

She huffs sharply, and tries to pull away from him. Finn lets her go, looking down into her face, “Listen carefully,” he says, “if you do exactly what I say, I can get you out of here.”

“Wh—what?” Pava gapes, her eyes big and confused. Finn peels his helmet off, grateful for the cold air that shocks against his clammy skin.

“This is a rescue,” Finn whispers, “I’m helping you escape.”

She startles, stares into his face, “Are you with the Resistance?”

“What?” Finn shakes his head, “No, we—we’re breaking you out. I need you to change into this uniform.” He holds the bundle of black Bridge clothes out to her.

“Who are you—who’s _we_?” she asks confused, her long, matted hair falling into her face.

“Poe, he—” Finn tries to smile, “Well he’s my friend.” 

“Why are you doing this?”

Finn is certain as he says, “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

Pava tilts her head to the side, hands on her hips, “You two have nowhere to go, do you?” she says it like she sees right through him.

Finn shakes his head, gravely.

“Alright then,” Pava nods deftly, “Let’s do this.”

“We have to save Poe,” Finn tries handing her the uniform again, “I need you to put this on.”

Pava narrows her eyes, reaching for the clothes hesitantly, “What the hell do you mean, _save_?”

 

 

 

The one thing Poe always forgets is that they torture him before the Reconditioning. The shock of electricity that wracks his body makes him curl up like a dying animal.

He might have forgotten the dozens of times he has been here before — strapped to this very chair, as they erased his memory, as they turned him inside out; the dozens of times he’s been here, as they struck him numb, and tried to take everything which belonged to him — but he will always remember that it never quite works.

Poe remains disloyal. He remains indignant, unwilling to take commands. Perhaps it is written in his bones. His very DNA, made of this rebellion. He is never to be tamed, even as he is strapped to a chair in the Reconditioning Module, time and time again, he is never to be contained. Every time — just as it happens now — Poe sees. Poe remembers.

Poe remembers the face of his father. His black hair shorn close to the skull, looking down at Poe as he held onto him in a low crouch. They held each other tight. Poe remembers how the ground shook, how the midday sky turned black, and starships blotted out the sun like dark clouds.

Poe remembers his mother standing beside them. He can feel his mother’s hand in his, as he stares up at her, her high cheeks and her thin face, black hair cascading down her shoulders like a shroud. Poe remembers his mother looking up at the sky, and the way his father whispered, _Shara_. He said that word like it was the last thing he would ever say to her. Poe’s mother looked down at them, at her boys, and smiled. She held tight to the flight helmet in her hands. She kissed Poe’s small forehead, and didn’t say goodbye. She knew she would see them again.

Poe never did see his mother again. That thought pierces deep, and he never forgets. His skin is electrified, an order is given to make it _hurt_ , his mind burnt up all at once. He never saw his mother again. Poe cries out in the Reconditioning Module, gasps for air, and knows deep inside, that no one can hear him. He was taken from his family. He might forget the color of his mother’s eyes or the name he was born with, but Poe will never forget how ground shook, or the way his hand was forced away from his father’s by the cold grip of a soldier, dressed all in white.

His eyes flicker open for the smallest moment, and his eyes catch the pattern in the tiled ceiling. He tries to focus on it. He begins counting, the tiles lined up in neat rows. _One, two,_ Poe’s body is lit up, and he lets out a terrified scream, _seven, eight, nine, ten._

He tries to count, the numbers blurring together in his head, the pain making it difficult to keep his eyes open. He stares at the ceiling and hears the muffled sound of the module door sliding open. The sound is muffled, and it feels like Poe’s ears are stuffed with cotton.

“What the hell are you doing!” he hears a voice yell, and the sound gets closer to Poe’s limp body.

The attendant is confused, their voice high, “Preparing this trooper for reconditioning, sir?”

 

 

 

Finn opens his mouth, prepared to tell the trooper to stand down, but he never gets the chance. Pava moves up to him, hitting the trooper over the head with the butt of Finn’s blaster, knocking him unconscious. Finn didn’t even notice her stealing it from the holster.

She looks up from the collapsed trooper and makes eye contact with Finn, grinning wryly, “Well that was easy,” she says. She steps over the comatose body, closer to the vertical rack Poe is strapped to.

“This is him?” she asks, looking into his sunken face.

Finn nods, sliding his white helmet off, taking a gentle step closer, “That’s him.”

Pava makes a face, tilting her head to the side, “Doesn’t look like much of a pilot to me.”

Finn feels the side of his mouth pull up into a grin, keeping his eyes on Poe. He wants to reach out, wants to hold him, “He’s the best there is.”

Poe lets out a small groan and Finn rushes closer, placing a hand on one clammy cheek, trying to rouse him from his fatigued state. Finn stares into his eyes and Poe looks medically sedated. He frowns when Poe lets out another long, pained whine, his head lolling further into Finn’s supportive grasp.

“You really love him don’t you?” Pava asks from behind Finn’s back.

He doesn’t know what to say. Love? If Finn had to choose a word, perhaps that would be it. But he’s never known love. Never knew what it entailed or what came with it. He’s heard the word before, but it was in whispers, said in the dark, like a prohibited thing which no one should think about. Love bred trouble. Trouble lead to the chair Poe was strapped to.

Carrying Poe’s half limp body down from the shackles of the Reconditioning chair feels like love. He wants to take Poe in his arms and hold him. And so he does. Finn doesn’t mind that Pava is beside them, or that Poe is covered in a hot, nervous sweat, dried blood clotted in his nostrils. Finn holds Poe close, unselfconscious, cradles his head in his hands and takes him in. Poe is weak, and Finn is holding up most of his body weight, but can’t stop himself from wishing he could pull them endlessly closer. Weakly, Poe hugs back, using all his strength to get Finn closer.

“Finn,” Poe whispers, his voice wet, “buddy—”

The sound of Pava’s voice breaks them up, Finn looking over his shoulder to see her peeking into the corridor, “This is sweet and all, but we need to go,” she nods, emphatically, “Like, _now_.”

Finn can feel Poe moving away, trying to stand on his own. He nods, gaining his bearings, “They doped me up good, just give me a second.”

“Not sure if we’ll have a second,” Pava breathes, peeking out the door again, Finn’s blaster poised in her grip, “We got a couple of bucketheads coming this way.”

“Alright, we can do this,” Finn nods, reaching for the handcuffs at the belt of his infantry uniform. He turns to Poe, apologetic.

“It’s okay, all part of the plan,” Poe says, putting his wrists out for Finn to clamp together, and he’s almost smiling, “One step closer to getting out of here.”

That makes Finn’s chest warm, as he cuffs Poe, “One step closer,” he says, and slides his infantry helmet back on. Finn and Pava move into position behind Poe, ushering a prisoner towards the hangars. Just before they pass back into the main corridor, Finn settles a gentle hand again Poes waist, assured; giving strength, gaining strength.

The hike to Bay Six is long, the anxiety of Jessika or Poe being recognized making it intensely longer. They keep their heads lowered, try not to attract attention — but the mere presence of a prisoner being marched down the corridors of the Finalizer is an exhibit in its own right. Finn just prays no one notices two prisoners have gone missing. He prays Jessika, in her stolen bridge uniform two sizes too big, isn’t recognized as the captured Resistance pilot.

They make their way to the hangar unscathed, and Finn can feel Poe stiffen at the sight of his Captain, stalking the bay floor in large circles, like a predator. “It’s okay,” Finn urges, pushing them all forward. Jessika blocks her face from view, pretending to check the status of the fighters closest to her side. And Poe. Poe’s legs are still weak, still tired from enduring the torture inflicted upon him in the Reconditioning module. He makes his way forward, but he is weak. Finn prods him forward with a gentle hand until they are in the shadow of the Launch Rack where his fighter is docked.

“Okay, let's go!” Finn says, ushering Pava in the right direction with a hand at her back, “This way, run!” They climb up the ladder of the launch rack, climbing into the familiar pod of Poe’s TIE s/f space superiority.

There is barley room for two inside, and Finn is relegated to the floor, strapped into an emergency vest meant for a redundant fighter pilot or backup gunner. Poe heads straight for his cockpit, while Pava makes herself comfortable in the gunner position. They strap themselves in, readying for take off. Finn feels himself breath easier the moment the pod door seals and a burst of cold air enters the cockpit.

“Damnit!” Poe shouts over the angry clamor of the TIE systems, the flight screen flashing an angry red, “I can’t authorize detach! They jammed my login after I was grounded; I can’t get us off the tether!”

“Leave it to me,” Jess says, hand on the gunner controls, eyes steely.

Poe turns in his seat, and Finn is afraid he might strain something, “If you shoot my fighter, when we get off this thing I’m shooting _you!_ ”

“Calm down, pretty boy!” Jess laughs, leaning in her seat to get Finn’s attention, “I see what you like about him, he’s got fire all right!”

Pava aims, shooting the tether free, “Woo, that’s it!” she shouts as it sparks. Wires fall away as Poe lifts them away from the launch rack, “Let’s get off this hunk of metal!”

“I have a name, you know,” Poe says to Jess over his shoulder. Something in Finn’s stomach gets warm, _he does have a name, doesn’t he?_ “It's Poe! Maybe you could use it, instead of _pretty boy._ ”

Jess just scoffs at him. She looks down at Finn, and asks sincerely, “What’s _your_ name?”

“Finn,” he tells her proudly, adrenaline almost making him shake as they escape into the blackness of deep space.

“Finn,” she repeats, smiles. Pava reaches to her neck to free the dog-tags sitting there, and tosses the chain to him, “It’s nice to meet you!”

Finn catches it in his hands, but can he barely read the little square of metal, the TIE is swerving so much, but it doesn’t matter, “I already know your name,” Finn says, looking up at her, the swerving TIE making his body rock.

“Well it’s still nice to meet you,” Jess chuckles sardonically. She yells to Poe, aiming their blasters at a TIE that trails them, “Set a course for Jakku!”

“Jakku!” Finn shouts, gripping his hand around Jess’ dog-tags, “We can’t go to Jakku! We need to get out of this system!”

“I gotta get my droid before the First Order does!” Jess shouts over the noise of the engine, “He’s still down there—”

“A droid?” Poe yells over his shoulder, trying to dodge a pair of missiles aimed for them.

“Yeah—he’s a BB Unit, orange and white! Kind of a cute little guy.”

“I don’t care what color he is!” Finn shouts, “No droid could be worth all that!”

“This one is, buddy!”

“If we go down there we’ll die!”

“That droid has a map that leads straight to Luke Skywalker!”

Finn gapes, “Are you kidding me—”

“I’ll get you there!” Poe tells her, steely-eyed. Finn stares at him, slack jawed, as Poe sets a new course in the nav system. The TIE is jostled to the side, an alarm blaring from both consoles. “—but I don’t think it’s gonna be that easy,” Poe says, gritting his teeth, as they careen dangerously to avoid blaster shots, “Finn, you okay?”

“I’m alright,” Finn says, biting his tongue. At the mention of Skywalker, Finn felt adrenaline take over, now he can hardly sit still.

“No bumping!” Jess shouts, to Poe, “I can’t get a clear shot!”

“Can’t exactly help it. And this is _my_  fighter by the way!” Poe jeers, steering them down.

Jess yells, “Go to warp one!”

“Not until you shake them, I can’t get a clear path—" Finn sees a bright flash, glorious, like how he thinks a sunrise might look. And then he doesn’t see anything else.

 

 

 

It’s hot when Finn opens his eyes. Hot like fire, hot like a collapsing star. He tries to sit up, but is stopped by the tug of the safety harness around him. With weak fingers, Finn gets himself free from the ejection seat, and stands up with weak knees, “Poe,” he starts, looking around for a sign of him.

He is surrounded by the sand dunes of Jakku, the endless, barren wasteland that surrounds him for miles in every direction. Finn can smell smoke, the tangy stench of burning metal and oil. Finn turns around, finding himself staring at a thick cloud that surges and billows over tan sand hillocks.

On weak feet, Finn makes his way over the unforgiving dunes, the smoke getting thicker and hotter as he approaches the source of the fire. Wreckage of the TIE is strewn across the plains, ash staining the sand black.

“Poe!” Finn shouts, searching the sand for another safe ejection seat, but the bright light of Jakku’s sun reflecting against the sand burns his eyes, and Finn is forced to look away, blinded. “Poe!” he yells, reaching the wreckage. The pod is empty, the other ejection seats gone, and the metal of the TIE’s shell would burn him if he were to look inside. In a mess of hot, bubbling plastic, stuck between pieces of the control panels are the dog tags Pava threw to him.

The tags are hot to the touch, but Finn is finally able to make out the words carved into the little metal plates, _Jessika Pava_ they read, and down below, _Call Sign: Blue Three._

Finn almost cries. He wants to cry, he wants to lay down and sleep. But he doesn’t, he walks.

Finn walks. It feels as though he walks for days, though he knows it can't have been more than a few hours. The sun barely moves in the sky, it just sits, burning overhead, and Finn is sure Jakku’s days must be at least forty hours long.

Soon, the heat is far too much for Finn to bear, and he sheds himself of the infantry uniform, scattering pieces of the white shell along the sand dunes. It feels cathartic, abandoning them there along the ground. He knows he’ll never have to wear that uniform again, and though it is too hot for Finn to try to smile and he has no idea where Poe or Jess were, his chest feels marginally lighter than it has in a long time.

He walks aimlessly, until he comes upon a metal landmark sticking out of the sand. He follows the beacons for miles, what felt like miles, he can’t quite tell. Soon there are no more landmarks to bare, and Finn is afraid he took a wrong turn, if that’s possible in this desert waste. It isn’t until he stops for a moment, allowing his eyes to rest on the horizon, that he realizes the ground before him drops off in a wide, rocky crag. Carefully, Finn approaches the edge of the rock face, holding a hand above his eyes to block out the glare of the sun. In the distance, he can make out the faintest shape of a trading outpost, low tents and metal shacks spread out over the sand. A light wind blows.

Finn laughs.

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the ending seems a bit like a cliff hanger but we all know what happens next anyway ~~~
> 
> Here’s a little taste of the sequel that I may never get around to, but it would deal with Finn and Poe pre and post TFA in this universe, where Poe and Finn are going in different directions, getting pulled away from each other by their opinions of the Rebellion and new relationships they have established on Yavin 4. They are still inseparable, clinging to one another as anchors, but can feel the world pulling them in different directions. Finn wants to escape the danger of the First Order, has formed a new friendship with Rey, and is fighting his own jealousy of Poe’s newly discovered family Shara and Kes. Poe is being driven by his rage at the First Order and desire to fly, he has formed close relationships with General Organa and a new flight squadron, and doesn’t understand Finn’s reluctance in joining the fight. Both are dealing with heavy amounts of post-traumatic stress, and are attempting to navigate a new world of freedom, politics, love and human relationships. So ya, here’s that:
> 
>  
> 
> “Poe, I just want you to be safe, that’s all.”
> 
> “And what about everyone else? Finn? What about everyone else in the Galaxy, who’s scared! And it can’t just be us who wanted to leave the First Order, there have to be others that want to defect.”
> 
> “We—you, you have a life now! You know their names and have seen their faces, and shouldn’t that be enough?”
> 
> “I think you’re forgetting the part where my parents were willing to sacrifice themselves for the Resistance. My mother sacrificed herself hoping that I could have a good life. Am I not supposed to do the same thing for others? That’s selfish, Finn.”
> 
> “Well what about me? What about when you die up there and leave me down here on this rock?”
> 
> “I’m sorry, Finn. I don’t know if we can agree on this—they’re calling me, I—I have to go… 
> 
>  
> 
> —
> 
>  
> 
> I'm on tumblr @thedamnstars 
> 
>  
> 
> xx


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